Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Let me count the langauges in which this stanza speaks to me.
Let me count the ways in which Emily Dickinson’s poetry never fails to pull me in.
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The opening lines of this famous poem by Emily Dickinson, one of the most celebrated classic poets—introduces the concept of success and how it is best understood by those who’ve already tasted failure once.
Here’s how it goes.
Not one of all the purple host
Emily Dickinson
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear!
The rest of the stanzas provide such a vivid image of someone who has lost the battle and is now lying there, defeated and distressed on the battle ground. We immediately can imagine how it must’ve felt to him to hear the distinct sounds of his enemies celebrating victory.
This makes us think: we need to taste failure to appreciate the success. We need to understand misery to not take happiness for granted.
Emily Dickinson’s poetry brushes up universal topics just as well as it talks about personal experience. She personifies death in some poems (and now it’s a household name—”Death”), talks about mental health in others, ventures as far as to write about the irrational mysteries and questions ringing around in the universe itself.
Let’s talk about Emily Dickinson’s poetry style: it is easy to understand, digest and even remember. You might notice how she is pretty abundantly gracious in her use of punctuation marks, dashes, capitalization. And of course, the unique ideas and vivid imagery—”Hope is the thing with feathers“, “Because I could not stop for death“.
Her knack for writing not just about drama and romanticism of that time makes way for new varied ideas and point of views in her talent-ridden poems. It is the way words dissolve on your tongue as you read them, the way images form in your mind’s eye, the way some universal emotion rises up and flutters once in your chest before lying back down in satisfaction. I’m sure you can imagine, yeah?
Table of Contents
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
Hope is the thing with feathers
Emily Dickinson
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Hope being compared to a bird makes us feel the lightness, liveliness, the beauty in it. Like a bird can leave behind the world and fly out into the open sky, so can we—if we hope. Leave our anxieties and fears behind and just hold on to hope; and without giving anything in return, we can feel as light in our hearts as birds do with the wings.
And aren’t wings just another symbol of hope and faith? Isn’t the flight of a young bird the most beautiful, the most awe-inspiring thing you could ever witness? There is grace in the way we reach for the sky, in the way we are meant for the light.
The last stanza just presents another imagery by Emily Dickinson—how even in foreign places and desperate situations, even in extreme distress, hoping for the better isn’t something that requires any special attention in return. Hoping doesn’t cost anything.
You can hope. You can hope for the better for as long as you need to.
Emily Dickinson Poems about Death and Grief
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 –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
The opening lines, “Because I could not stop for Death“, is actually such a relatable metaphor in today’s world when it comes at it, because all of us people are so busy in doing our own stuff and just running and running, thinking mortality won’t get to us, because we’re always moving ahead, right? But Death’s play showcases how it’s time when it’s time.
Emily Dickinson wrote more poems concerning death, and here’s another:
Death is a Dialogue Between
Death is a Dialogue between
Emily Dickinson
The Spirit and the Dust.
“Dissolve” says Death — The Spirit “Sir
I have another Trust” —
Death doubts it — Argues from the Ground —
The Spirit turns away
Just laying off for evidence
An Overcoat of Clay.
The poem uses mystical elements to provide a dialogue between spirit and dust, providing a unique perspective—as always—on how death plays out. There’s a tension between the immortal spirit/soul of a person and their physical matter/the dust they were made of, or the dust they end up becoming. When Death asks the Spirit to dissolve into the earth, the Spirit claims that it has another duty to perform—go through mystical realms to the immortal place, most probably afterlife.
The two-stanza poem seeks to elevate the mysteries surrounding death and bring them under light. One of her classic poems about death and grief.
this is my letter to the world
This is my letter to the World
Emily Dickinson
That never wrote to Me–
The simple News that Nature told–
With tender Majesty
Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see–
For love of Her– Sweet– countrymen–
Judge tenderly– of Me
This short poem shows the loneliness that the speaker might feel in her own home, the inability to communicate freely and properly and say what she wanted to.
The first line itself establishes a direct connection between the speaker and their audience. And the second line immediately mutes the effect by talking about the one-sided nature of this conversation.
These lines of Emily Dickinson’s poetry asserts her role as a messenger from the nature, sharing her thoughts with the world—despite getting no reply or recognition for it whatsoever—inviting the readers to look at her perspective but judge her only tenderly.
I’m Nobody! Why Are You?
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Emily Dickinson
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Emily Dickinson in this poem refers to herself as a nobody, however, we notice an almost excited tone in her writing as she speaks this. And this shows how she, realizing that the reader might also be a nobody, doesn’t feel bothered by any of it. Subtly giving the message how perfectly fine it is to be a nobody, to not want to indulge too much with the world, having a private life and living in your own thoughts.
Why would we feel bad if the world calls us a nobody? Why do we need to be famous and well-known and a somebody? That’s the thing about Emily Dickinson’s poetry, she uses a unique style to tell things in a more interesting way. Just notice the use of exclamation marks in this particular poem of hers. She talks about how dreary it must be to be a somebody, when in the ordinary person’s world, this might sometimes be the ultimate goal.
But is it really something you want, something you’re willing to have in return of a quiet, peaceful, private life? It’s worth thinking about.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
After great pain, a formal feeling comes–
Emily Dickinson
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs–
The stiff Heart questions “was it He, that bore,
And “Yesterday, or Centuries before”?
The Feet, mechanical, go round–
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought–
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone–
This is the Hour of Lead–
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow–
First–Chill– then Stupor– then the letting go–
Instead of focusing on the grief as many other poets in this theme did, this poem instead focuses on this numb, chilly, cold feeling that comes after grief.
It explores the dilemma that comes after intense suffering, a feeling that often leaves one numb, as if one is trapped in a state of shock. Emily Dickinson compares her Nerves to “Tombs”, and her heart to a “stiff Heart.” The process of letting go being talked about the concluding lines might not be as relieving as you might think—it might be about letting go of control, resiging to the inevitability of pain and loss.
I felt a Funeral in my Brain
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
emily Dickinson
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
Emily Dickinson compared the speaker’s mind to a funeral procession, proceeding through the actions and making the readers feel the hopelessness through it all. Some themes touched upon almost in the entire poem are madness, the mysteries of the universe, and despair.
Look at the note that the poem ends on, a hyphen, right. “And finished knowing, then—” this hints at the speaker understanding at last what was happening around them, but just as they could explain it any further in a coherent manner, the poems ends.
Such finesse. The way you can almost feel the words, sift through them, imagine them being your own. The way she manages to capture the most profound yet inexplicable of human emotions.
I Heard A Fly Buzz—When I Died
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
Emily Dickinson
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –
The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –
I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –
With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –
This poem by Emily Dickinson provides an unflinching portrayal of the moment when death arrives. Vivid imagery is employed to capture the sensory details one might come across in the experience of dying.
The mundane of a fly bussing around in the room provides a juxtaposition with the profound event of a speaker’s death. It makes us notice the ordinary within the extraordinary.
I taste a liquor never brewed
I taste a liquor never brewed –
emily Dickinson
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro’ endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” –
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!
The poet is getting drunk on life and a summer day. This is better than any alcohol ever brewed, and her playfulness and liveliness surpasses that of bees and butterflies who drink nectar.
Somehow removed in tone from her more somber pieces, this one is pleasantly silly. It is more like the carefree nights, fairy lights, uncensored conversations, moonlit confessions, drunken giggles and twinkling eyes. The freedom of letting go, even if for just a little while.
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
emily Dickinson
The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night’s delicious close,
Between the March and April line—
That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
Almost too heavenly near.
It makes us think of all the dead
That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
Made cruelly more dear.
It makes us think of what we had,
And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
Would go and sing no more.
An ear can break a human heart
As quickly as a spear.
We wish the ear had not a heart
So dangerously near.
One of the best bittersweet, nostalgic poems by Emily Dickinson.
Just look at the contrast in the first line itself, frequently how contrasting our feelings and emotions are. The saddest noise, the sweetest noise. It is the sound that birds make in springtime. And even though it provides comfort and peace to someone because of its sweetness, at the same time it brings grief to a heart that’s lost someone dear.
Spring might be the most beautiful time of the year, but the heart cannot ignore the heaviness it carries, the slight tremble of breath that flutters in tandem with the wings of the butterfly, the bittersweet edge to the note of the cuckoo.
I have always thought it is so because spring stands at the edge of summer and too often we link summer to new beginnings. But we don’t always realize that beginnings also mean endings. The circle may be big enough to be mistaken for a straight line, but it is always a circle. And woven into the circle of life is the bone deep ache of loving and losing and loving and losing and loving—
The Brain Is Wider Than The Sky
The Brain–is wider than the Sky–
emily Dickinson
For–put them side by side–
The one the other will contain
With ease–and You–beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea–
For–hold them–Blue to Blue–
The one the other will absorb–
As Sponges–Buckets–do–
The Brain is just the weight of God–
For–Heft them–Pound for Pound–
And they will differ–if they do–
As Syllable from Sound–
This poem powerfully explores the mysteries of the mind and its vastness and depth. The human mind surpasses the universe itself in its capacity for thought, emotion, and understanding.
Emily Dickinson states how the brain is not only wider than the sky and deeper than the sea but is also carrying the weight of divinity and limitless capabilities.
My Life Had Stood A Loaded Gun
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
emily Dickinson
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away –
And now We roam in Sovreign Woods –
And now We hunt the Doe –
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply –
And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow –
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through –
And when at Night –
Our good Day done –
I guard My Master’s Head –
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow – to have shared –
To foe of His – I’m deadly foe –
None stir the second time –
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye –
Or an emphatic Thumb –
Though I than He – may longer live
He longer must – than I –
For I have but the power to kill,
Without – the power to die –
There is something about the poems by classic poets written from an inanimate object’s point of view that just strike a chord somewhere. It’s like seeing something in a new light, almost as if you’d never seen the thing before.
This is such a childlike, innocent poem, whilst also carrying the distant whiplash of empathizing with something you’d never thought you’d never empathize with. It’s like putting yourself in the shoes of someone you didn’t even know wore shoes.
As Imperceptibly as Grief
As imperceptibly as grief
Emily Dickinson
The summer lapsed away,—
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature, spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,—
A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the beautiful.
This masterpiece of Emily Dickinson’s poetry explores the gradual passing of time through using the metaphor of changing seasons. Life and emotions are all transient, like the ever-changing seasons themselves. This poem focuses more on nature and its imagery, as we see quiet clearly, and uses the beautiful bounty of nature to highlight the acceptance and understanding of change as it passes.
I died for Beauty but was Scarce
I died for Beauty—but was scarce
emily Dickinson
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room—
He questioned softly “Why I failed?”
“For Beauty,” I replied—
“And I—for Truth—Themself are One—
We Brethren, are,” He said—
And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night—
We talked between the Rooms—
Until the Moss had reached our lips—
And covered up—Our names—
A haunting poem about the reality of death and the transience of the ideals we might hold dear to ourselves right now. The speaker had just died and was lain in a grave when a man who had died for Truth occupied the next “room”. They strike up a conversation, in which he asked her what was the thing she had sacrificed herself for.
They talked to and fro, from their respective graves, underlying the Gothic idea presented. While the poet died for “Beauty”, suffering willfully for art and romance, the other person died for “Truth”, indicating martyrdom for politics or religious beliefs. And they find out how the two are not different at all, but the same. Truth and Beauty—mere reflections of each other, one imitating the other so well as to be born of the same root.
But just as they begin talking like they’re kin already, the moss was sprinkled on them, thus shutting them off and locking them in forever.
In many ways, poetry is an ideal too.
Emily Dickinson’s Poetry
Emily Dickinson is one of the most celebrate classic poets we read about.
Did you know that Emily Dickinson wrote almost around 1800 poems in her lifetime, and unfortunately only a dozen of them got to be published while she was still alive? She sew some 40 booklets herself in which she included 800 or so poems. This indicates how she was of a more inward nature, resorting to only share her poetry with friends and family and not all.
Did you know that she had this one miraculous, most active year, 1862, in which she wrote 366 poems in total? Talk about writer’s block, you bet she never had one.
Just imagine how interesting it is to read about these classic poets and all that they can teach us. Of course, we coudlnt cover all the poems ever written by her, but we can sure make a part two. Or check out other poets.
Comment below if there’s another one of the classic poets you want to read about too! I had fun compiling this! And I hope you had fun reading it too!
You know what, you can buy a complete collection of Emily Dickinson’s poetry right now. Get it on Amazon here. Check out more posts about poetry here.
