Emily Dickinson

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After great pain, a formal feeling comes – (372) BY EMILY DICKINSON After great pain, a formal feeling comes – 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 – Much Madness is divinest Sense - (620) BY EMILY DICKINSON Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense - the starkest Madness - ’Tis the Majority In this, as all, prevail - Assent - and you are sane - Demur - you’re straightway dangerous - And handled with a Chain - I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340) BY EMILY DICKINSON I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, 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 - We grow accustomed to the dark By Emily Dickinson We grow accustomed to the Dark - When light is put away - As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp To witness her Goodbye - A Moment - We uncertain step For newness of the night - Then - fit our Vision to the Dark - And meet the Road - erect - And so of larger - Darknesses - Those Evenings of the Brain - When not a Moon disclose a sign - Or Star - come out - within - The Bravest - grope a little - And sometimes hit a Tree Directly in the Forehead - But as they learn to see - Either the Darkness alters - Or something in the sight Adjusts itself to Midnight - And Life steps almost straight. I Died For Beauty But Was Scarce - Poem by Emily Dickinson I died for beauty but was scarce 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,--the two 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. I heard a Fly buzz - when I died - (591) BY EMILY DICKINSON I heard a Fly buzz - when I died - 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 wa.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – (372)BY EMILY DICKI.docx

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Emily Dickinson 1830-1886 A virtual recluse In 55 short years of life, rarely left her home in Amherst, Mass. A comfortable home: dad a prominent lawyer and civic leader. A chronically ill mother, for whom Emily had to care An unmarried sister (“Vinnie”) who also lived at home. A brother (Austin) and his wife Susan Gilbert, to whom ED wrote. A highly religious household, but Emily was different; a little strange and solitary. Not anti-social, but not exactly the “belle of the ball.” Hard to communicate with; on a different “wavelength.” Had few friends. Never married or had a “boy friend,” and, as far as we know, never experienced physical love. A valentine to a young man at Amherst “Sir, I desire an interview; meet me at sunrise, or sunset, or the new moon – the place is immaterial…With soul, or spirit, or body, they are all alike to me. With host or alone, in sunshine or storm, in heaven or earth, some how or no how – I propose, sir, to see you. And not to see merely, but a chat, sir, or a tete-a-tete, a confab, a mingling of opposite minds is what I propose to have…Our friendship, sir, shall endure till sun and moon shall wane no more, till stars shall set, and victims rise to grace the final sacrifice…I am Judith, the heroine of the Apocrypha, and you the orator of Ephesus. That’s what they call a metaphor in our country. Don’t be afraid of it, sir, it won’t bite! To George Gould, a friend of her brother Austin, Feb. 1850 “Vesuvius at home” Spent her solitude reading (Bible and Shakespeare), writing poetry. Some poems about the theme of creativity itself. Often compared her creative urge to a volcano bubbling invisibly beneath the surface: Volcanoes be in Sicily And South America I judge from my Geography – Volcanoes nearer here A Lava step at any time Am I inclined to climb – A Crater I may contemplate Vesuvius at Home. (#1705; ?) No desire for fame. Never in her lifetime did she try to publish her poems. Handwrote and tied them together in small bundles (“fascicles”), 1776 in all. Asked sister to burn them after death. Vinnie could not do it, and with a family friend, eventually brought them to light. I’m Nobody! Who are you? 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! (#288; c. 1861) Despite staying at home, she knew the world. I never saw a Moor – I never saw the Sea – Yet know I how the Heather looks And what a Billow be. (#1052; c. 1865) Dickinson vs. Whitman “One of the two great poetic geniuses of the 19th c.” (F. Madden) As different from Whitman as night from day. “You speak of Mr. Whitman – I never read his Book – but was told that he was disgraceful --” (ED in letter to TW Higginson, April 1862) Whitman a “public” poet who loved people; Dickinson intensely private. Whitman’s lines a ...

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Emily Dickinson 1830 – 1886 Critic Irving Howe says that Dickinson “is the author of 1,775 poems, most of them bad, a goodly number fine, and a few dozen great.” Although she was an extremely prolific poet, only seven of her poems were published during her lifetime, and her lifestyle has drawn about as much attention as the poetry itself. There is considerable controversy about her life. Many of her biographers (especially her family) have found congenial the picture of the “New England Nun--the old maid recluse suffering from unrequited love who hid in on the stairway to eavesdrop on conversations or skittered through the garden at night dressed in solid white.” Dickinson did spend most of her life in Amherst, but her social interaction was probably grater than many biographers have suggested. The confusion over her biography is reflected in the proposed interpretations of many her poems, including the following: My life closed twice before its close— My life closed twice before its close— It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me So huge, so hopeless to conceive As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell. The Norton anthology says the one who tried to “teach her immortality” was the Reverend Charles Wadsworth, a Presbyterian minister, whom she first met in Philadelphia in 1854. Other critics maintain that it is Ben Newton, a young law apprentice who died of tuberculosis. Others say it is Leonard Humphrey. In the last decade of her life, she is said to have fallen in love again with Judge Otis P. Lord. Dickinson’s verse patterns are primarily those of the English hymn. English hymns consisted of quatrains and were arranged: 4 lines of 8 syllables each (long meter) (iambic tetrameter) 4 lines of alternating 6 and 8 (common meter) iambic trimeter/tetrameter 4 lines of two 6, one 8, one 6 (short meter) iambic trimeter/tetrameter/ trimeter. Most of her poems are in common meter. A few, but some of her best, are in short meter. Dickinson strived for economy in her verse (few poems are over twelve lines). Because of this desire for conciseness, to communicate only the kernel of thought, her diction consists primarily of monosyllabic and disyllabic words--frequently those of homespun New England life. She clipped sentences and omitted conjunctions. She is often cryptic because she strived to capture the “telegraphic thought.” One critic calls her “half-idiotic.” Dickinson was innovative in rhyme. She uses eye rhyme (prove/love; daughter/laughter) and approximate rhyme. After her death, Lavinia, Dickinson’s sister, turned over her manuscripts to a neighbor, Mrs. Mabel Loomis Todd, who together with Dickinson’s old friend Thomas Wentworth Higginson published in 1890 Poems by Emily Dickinson. Several other volumes appeared in the next fifty years. In 1955 Thomas H. Johnson published The Poems of Emily ...

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5.3 An Annotated Story Illustrating Elements of Setting and Character In "A Worn Path," Eudora Welty swiftly and effectively establishes the time of year (December) and the geographic location of the story (the South); she identifies the main character, an old African-American woman (Phoenix Jackson); and she describes the old woman's appearance and thoughts as the woman begins to move along the path in the pinewoods. Through her use of evocative details, Welty creates a sense of determined struggle in Phoenix. In just a few words, the author sets the external environment and internal conditions that will contribute to the action and the outcome of the story. Eudora Welty (1909–2001) © Bettmann/CORBIS Eudora Welty's parents moved from Ohio to Jackson, Mississippi, where Welty was born. After earning a bachelor's degree from the University of Wisconsin, Welty entered graduate studies at Columbia University in adver-tising (her father doubted she would be able to support herself as a writer). She returned to Jackson, where she spent her life writing short stories and novels. Welty enjoyed photography, lecturing, and teaching. In her fiction, she was a keen observer of Mississippi life, identifying its hardships and struggles, but also offering a vision of hope and change based on family and love relationships. She won a Pulitzer Prize for her novel The Optimist's Daughter in 1973 and was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1980. A Worn Path Eudora Welty (1941) i It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed meditative, like the chirping of a solitary little bird. She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper. Now and then there was a quivering in .

5.3 An Annotated Story Illustrating Elements of Setting and Charac.docx

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1 A Worn Path Eudora Welty It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed meditative, like the chirping of a solitary little bird. She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper. Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, 'Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! ... Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites ... Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.' Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hiding things. On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him. The path ran up a hill. 'Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,' she said, in the voice of argument old people keep to use with themselves. 'Something always take a hold of me on this hill— pleads I should stay.' After she got to the top, she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. 'Up through pines,' she said at length. 'Now down through oaks.' Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a bush caught her dress. Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. 'I in the thorny bush,' she said. 'Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass—no, sir. Old eyes thought you was a ...

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