eternity

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CALLED BACK.Just lost when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!

Therefore, as one returned, I feel,
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,
Some pale reporter from the awful doors
Before the seal!

Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by eye.

Next time, to tarry,
While the ages steal, –
Slow tramp the centuries,
And the cycles wheel.

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Sleep is supposed to beSleep is supposed to be,
By souls of sanity,
The shutting of the eye.

Sleep is the station grand
Down which on either hand
The hosts of witness stand!

Morn is supposed to be,
By people of degree,
The breaking of the day.

Morning has not occurred!
That shall aurora be
East of eternity;

One with the banner gay,
One in the red array, –
That is the break of day.

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Yvonne Hudson, whose one-woman show “Mrs. Shakespeare” received critical acclaim when it played the Tribeca Playhouse in NYC and the Cathedral of Learning in Pittsburgh, turns her attention now to Emily Dickinson in her new show, “The Poet Lights the Lamp”. As Pittsburgh Live notes about the upcoming performance at the Cathedral of Learning on the University of Pittsburgh campus:

Hudson, appearing as Emily, shares the inspirations and tribulations of the writing life. Drawn from Emily’s letters and works, and the observations of those who knew the prolific and reclusive poet, this solo presentation features a replica of the writer’s white dress, designed by Pitt Theatre’s Cindy Albert. Hudson reveals the poet’s sly wit and passion for publishing through Emily’s own words and her original script.

Note that this is NOT “The Belle of Amherst”, the well-known one-woman show about Emily Dickinson that has been revived this season by the Woods Hole Theater Company on Cape Code, the Independent Players in Elgin, IL, Hope College in Holland, MI, and, perhaps most buzz-worthy, Lindsay Crouse with the Gloucester Stage.

Dickinson certainly lends herself well to the intimacy of the one-woman-show format. There is a wink and a nod in most of her poems; they’re not chatty, but they do suggest that the reader lean forward a little bit, listen a little closer, and take away some pearls of wit.

I’ve found precious little about this new show–only a few notes of its October 20 performance–but the title is evocative. It suggests illumination and insight, and also that sort of close intimacy that comes when people sit down together in a dark room with just a dim lamp to cast shadows while they discuss nlife, love, nature, time, and eternity.

If you’re in Pittsburgh for homecoming weekend, swing over to the show ($5 with a student ID!), and then drop us a line here at the Daily Dickinson; we’d love for someone to share a review of this new work if they’ve got a moment to spare.

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THE CHARIOT.Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

Or rather He passed us.
The dews drew quivering and chill
For only gossamer, my gown,
My tippet, only tulle.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ‘t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

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The bustle in a houseThe bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, –

The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

Welcome, Andrew Sullivan readers!

I hope you enjoy browsing the poems and pictures here, and hope you make a habit of dropping by.

One ought every day at least to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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To know just how he suffered would be dearTo know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.

To know if he was patient, part content,
Was dying as he thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?

And wishes, had he any?
Just his sigh, accented,
Had been legible to me.
And was he confident until
Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best,
What first,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?
Might he know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
Meet — and the junction be Eternity?

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SETTING SAIL.Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea, –
Past the houses, past the headlands,
Into deep eternity!

Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

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FROM THE CHRYSALIS.My cocoon tightens, colors tease,
I’m feeling for the air;
A dim capacity for wings
Degrades the dress I wear.

A power of butterfly must be
The aptitude to fly,
Meadows of majesty concedes
And easy sweeps of sky.

So I must baffle at the hint
And cipher at the sign,
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clew divine.

Dickinson combines her naturalistic observation with her mystical bent to great effect in many of the “Time and Eternity” poems. “FROM THE CHRYSALIS” in particular builds on an image from nature–the confining chrysalis that opens up to the “easy sweep of sky”–as a metaphor for spiritual growth and change. The speaker feels confined–”[m]y cocoon tightens”–and her earthly form is inconsistent with her spiritual: “[a] dim capacity for wings / Degrades the dress I wear.” (“Degrades” is an interesting choice of words here: earthly clothing exalted over spiritual wings? Degraded in the eyes of convention?)

Unlike a butterfly, though, that knows instinctively how to dry its wings and fly when it emerges from its chrysalis, the speaker of this poem is not gifted with certainty; she expects to “make much blunder” in her halting attempts to fly. The divine is not clearly expressed to the human eye: one must solve the puzzle (“cipher at the sign”) of a mysterious divinity that is only hinted at.

The use of the archaic spelling “clew” is interesting here as well, and suggests some intriguing puns. While it may be just an alternate for “clue”, which fits the poem, “clew” also has nautical and mythological meanings. On a ship, clew lines are used in rigging sails; in this reading, the speaker’s wings become sails that are blown toward the divine. “Baffle” then takes on shades of controlling wind, and “cipher at the sign” suggests the tricky art of celestial navigation. A “clew” is also a skein of thread, and is used in reference to the thread that Theseus followed out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. Taking the “clew divine”, then, might mean following a thread out of confusion, with a suggestion of danger lurking in that befuddlement.

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