first

Ashes denote that fire was;
Respect the grayest pile
For the departed creature’s sake
That hovered there awhile.

Fire exists the first in light,
And then consolidates, –
Only the chemist can disclose
Into what carbonates.

A face devoid of love or grace,
A hateful, hard, successful face,
A face with which a stone
Would feel as thoroughly at ease
As were they old acquaintances, –
First time together thrown.

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl, –
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And ‘t was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos, — stopless, cool, –
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

Podcast music by Antonio Meneses

Morns like these we parted;
Noons like these she rose,
Fluttering first, then firmer,
To her fair repose.

Never did she lisp it,
And ‘t was not for me;
She was mute from transport,
I, from agony!

Till the evening, nearing,
One the shutters drew –
Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!

Going to heaven!
I don’t know when,
Pray do not ask me how, –
Indeed, I ‘m too astonished
To think of answering you!
Going to heaven! –
How dim it sounds!
And yet it will be done
As sure as flocks go home at night
Unto the shepherd’s arm!

Perhaps you ‘re going too!
Who knows?
If you should get there first,
Save just a little place for me
Close to the two I lost!

The smallest “robe” will fit me,
And just a bit of “crown;”
For you know we do not mind our dress
When we are going home.

I ‘m glad I don’t believe it,
For it would stop my breath,
And I ‘d like to look a little more
At such a curious earth!
I am glad they did believe it
Whom I have never found
Since the mighty autumn afternoon
I left them in the ground.

I dreaded that first robin so,
But he is mastered now,
And I ‘m accustomed to him grown, –
He hurts a little, though.

I thought if I could only live
Till that first shout got by,
Not all pianos in the woods
Had power to mangle me.

I dared not meet the daffodils,
For fear their yellow gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own.

I wished the grass would hurry,
So when ‘t was time to see,
He ‘d be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch to look at me.

I could not bear the bees should come,
I wished they ‘d stay away
In those dim countries where they go:
What word had they for me?

They ‘re here, though; not a creature failed,
No blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me,
The Queen of Calvary.

Each one salutes me as he goes,
And I my childish plumes
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking drums.

The official Daily Dickinson 2008 Calendar is available, featuring poems and pictures that have been featured on this site.

“Whose are the little beds,” I asked,
“Which in the valleys lie?”
Some shook their heads, and others smiled,
And no one made reply.

“Perhaps they did not hear,” I said;
“I will inquire again.
Whose are the beds, the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?”

“‘T is daisy in the shortest;
A little farther on,
Nearest the door to wake the first,
Little leontodon.

“‘T is iris, sir, and aster,
Anemone and bell,
Batschia in the blanket red,
And chubby daffodil.”

Meanwhile at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied,
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

“Hush! Epigea wakens! –
The crocus stirs her lids,
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson, –
She’s dreaming of the woods.”

Then, turning from them, reverent,
“Their bed-time ‘t is,” she said;
“The bumble-bees will wake them
When April woods are red.”

The official Daily Dickinson 2008 Calendar is available, featuring poems and pictures that have been featured on this site.

Emily Dickinson’s 177th birthday arrives next Monday, December 10 (and she looks hardly a day over 150 . . .). Celebratory events are gearing up; we’ve already mentioned the reading and discussion at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, on Monday evening.

Closer to home (at least, to Dickinson’s home), the Emily Dickinson Museum has a few events planned:

• “my Verse is alive”, an exhibit that “explores the tangled private and public motives of several figures closely associated with Emily Dickinson,” closes on December 8.
• Emily Dickinson Birthday Lecture, at 4:00 PM today, Thursday, December 6, given by scholar and biographer Polly Longsworth; the title for her lecture is given as “‘Nothing but a Sword’: Austin and Mabel and the Publication of Emily Dickinson’s Poems.”
• Birthday Open House, 1:00 – 4:00 PM on Saturday, December 8; “the first 177 visitors will receive a rose, courtesy of an anonymous donor.”

The Amherst Bulletin lists some of the many entertainments to expect at the open house, including music, crafts, and a book signing by Barbara Dana and Cindy MacKenzie. If you find yourself in Amherst on Saturday, this is a must-see event!