Emily Dickinson and The Example of Her Poems – Emily Dickinson’s life has always fascinated people, even before she was famous for her poetry. She was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, a small farming village, on December 10, 1830, to Edward and Emily Norcross Dickinson. Edward Dickinson was a well-respected lawyer and politician, descended from a prominent Amherst family; his father was a founder of Amherst College, where Edward was treasurer.
Emily was the middle child, and was very close to her brother, Austin, and sister, Lavinia. Emily spent almost all of her life in her parents’ home in Amherst, with the exception of the year she spent in boarding school—she left ostensibly because of illness, although it is more likely that it was homesickness. Emily was encouraged to get a good education, although Edward Dickinson had conservative views on the place of women, and did not want her to appear too literary.
When Emily returned from boarding school, she was very active socially, and was considered well-liked and attractive. In her late twenties, though, she suddenly cut herself all from all society, never leaving her family’s home, and started ferociously writing poetry. Although there is a long-standing myth that the catalyst for this was her falling in love with a man who rejected her, it is more likely that it was a combination of several factors.
Austin Dickinson married Emily’s very close friend, Susan Gilbert, but the marriage soon became an unhappy one, and Emily’s friendship with Susan eventually dissolved because of it. In addition, in late 1855, Emily’s mother fell ill with an undiagnosed illness, and from then until her death in 1882, she was essentially bedridden, and Emily and Lavinia had to devote a great deal of time to caring for her. This was especially taxing on Emily, who found all domestic chores stifling, and who was not very close to her mother. Finally, between 1851 and 1854, as many as thirty-three young acquaintances of Emily’s died, including her good friend and cousin, Emily Lavinia Norcross.
Emily began to dress only in white, and would see no one but her family, meeting visitors only through screens or behind doors. She wrote prolifically, writing almost 1800 poems in her lifetime, but her genius was never recognized in her lifetime. She published only seven poems while alive, all anonymously, and all heavily edited. Only after her death from kidney disease in 1886 did her sister find her poems. Recognizing their genius, she convinced her brother’s mistress, Mabel Loomis Todd, to help her publish them. The first book was published in 1890, and met with great success.
Here, you can read 10 Emily’s poems to get more understanding about her literary works.
If Ever The Lid Gets Off My Head
If ever the lid gets off my head
And lets the brain away
The fellow will go where he belonged –
Without a hint from me,
Will see how far from home
It is possible for sense to live
The soul there – all the time.
The spry Arms of the Wind
If I could crawl between
I have an errand imminent
To an adjoining Zone –
My Process is not long
The Wind could wait without the Gate
Or stroll the Town among.
And is the soul at Home
And hold the Wick of mine to it
To light, and then return –
Exhilaration is the Breeze
Exhilaration is the Breeze
And leaves us in another place
Whose statement is not found –
We soberly descend
A little newer for the term
Upon Enchanted Ground –
My cocoon tightens, colors tease,
I’m feeling for the air;
A dim capacity for wings
Degrades the dress I wear.
The aptitude to fly,
Meadows of majesty concedes
And easy sweeps of sky.
And cipher at the sign,
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clew divine.
Yesterday is History,
‘Tis so far away –
Yesterday is Poetry –
‘Tis Philosophy –
Where it is Today
While we shrewdly speculate
Flutter both away
I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too –
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro
That Sense was breaking through –
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
Success is Counted Sweetest
Success is counted sweetest
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
Wild nights – Wild nights!
Wild nights – Wild nights!
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Ah – the Sea!
Might I but moor – tonight –
In thee!
A Bird, came down the Walk
A Bird, came down the Walk –
He bit an Angle Worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
From a convenient Grass –
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass –
That hurried all abroad –
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought,
He stirred his Velvet Head. –
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers,
And rowed him softer Home –
Too silver for a seam,
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.