Emily Dickinson Complete Poems E-Book

Emily Dickinson

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: Women Writers of the World
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 158

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Complete Poems  is a collection that encapsulates Emily Dickinson's  unique poetic voice, characterized by its brevity, striking imagery, and exploration of profound themes. Through her unconventional use of punctuation and syntax, Dickinson delves into subjects such as death, immortality, nature, and the human psyche, offering an introspective and often enigmatic perspective on existence. Her poetry challenges traditional forms and expectations, reflecting an intensely personal yet universally resonant exploration of life's mysteries. Since its posthumous publication, Complete Poems has been recognized for its originality and emotional depth, solidifying Dickinson's reputation as one of the most influential figures in American literature. Her ability to capture complex emotions and abstract concepts in concise, vivid language has made her work an enduring subject of study and admiration. The interplay between solitude, perception, and the infinite in her poetry continues to inspire and challenge readers, ensuring her lasting impact on the literary canon. The collection's enduring relevance lies in its ability to express the ineffable, bridging the intimate and the existential with lyrical precision. Dickinson's exploration of the boundaries between life and death, self and society, faith and doubt invites readers to contemplate the intricacies of human experience, making Poems a cornerstone of poetic innovation and introspection.

Leseprobe

Emily Dickinson

EMILY DICKINSON COMPLETE POEMS

Contents

INTRODUCTION

EMILY DICKINSON COMPLETE POEMS

FIRST SERIES

SECOND SERIES

THIRD SERIES

INTRODUCTION

Emily Dickinson

1830 - 1886

Emily Dickinson was an American poet, widely regarded as one of the most original and influential voices in 19th-century literature. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, she is known for her innovative use of language, unconventional punctuation, and introspective themes exploring nature, mortality, and the human spirit. Although she published only a few poems during her lifetime, her posthumous works established her as one of the greatest poets in American literature.

Early Life and Education

Emily Dickinson was born into a prominent New England family and received a rigorous education at Amherst Academy before briefly attending Mount Holyoke Female Seminary. Despite her academic excellence, she withdrew from formal education and gradually became more reclusive. Dickinson maintained close correspondence with a small circle of friends and mentors, exchanging letters that often contained her poetry.

Career and Contributions

Dickinson’s poetry is marked by its brevity, striking imagery, and innovative use of slant rhyme. She often explored profound themes such as love, death, nature, and the search for meaning, creating a body of work that defied the literary conventions of her time. Among her most famous poems are "Because I could not stop for Death," "I’m Nobody! Who are you?" and "Hope is the thing with feathers."

During her lifetime, only a handful of her nearly 1,800 poems were published, and those that were appeared in heavily edited forms. It was not until after her death that her sister, Lavinia Dickinson, discovered her vast collection of poetry and arranged for its publication. The first volume of her poems, edited by Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, was published in 1890, bringing her work to a wider audience.

Impact and Legacy

Emily Dickinson’s poetry was ahead of its time, challenging traditional forms and structures while capturing the complexities of human emotion with remarkable depth. Her unique style, with its unconventional syntax and punctuation, has been the subject of extensive literary analysis and continues to influence poets and scholars.

Although largely unrecognized in her lifetime, Dickinson is now celebrated as a foundational figure in American poetry. Her work has inspired countless writers and continues to be widely studied for its originality, introspection, and philosophical depth.

Emily Dickinson lived much of her later life in seclusion, rarely leaving her family home. She died in 1886 at the age of 55, likely from Bright’s disease. After her death, the publication of her poetry transformed her into one of the most significant literary figures of the 19th century. Today, her work remains a cornerstone of American literature, admired for its profound exploration of the human experience and its enduring poetic innovation.

About the work

Complete Poems is a collection that encapsulates Emily Dickinson's unique poetic voice, characterized by its brevity, striking imagery, and exploration of profound themes. Through her unconventional use of punctuation and syntax, Dickinson delves into subjects such as death, immortality, nature, and the human psyche, offering an introspective and often enigmatic perspective on existence. Her poetry challenges traditional forms and expectations, reflecting an intensely personal yet universally resonant exploration of life's mysteries.

Since its posthumous publication, Complete Poems has been recognized for its originality and emotional depth, solidifying Dickinson's reputation as one of the most influential figures in American literature. Her ability to capture complex emotions and abstract concepts in concise, vivid language has made her work an enduring subject of study and admiration. The interplay between solitude, perception, and the infinite in her poetry continues to inspire and challenge readers, ensuring her lasting impact on the literary canon.

The collection's enduring relevance lies in its ability to express the ineffable, bridging the intimate and the existential with lyrical precision. Dickinson’s exploration of the boundaries between life and death, self and society, faith and doubt invites readers to contemplate the intricacies of human experience, making Poems a cornerstone of poetic innovation and introspection.

EMILY DICKINSON COMPLETE POEMS

FIRST SERIES

PREFACE.

The verses of Emily Dickinson belong emphatically to what Emerson long since called "the Poetry of the Portfolio," — something produced absolutely without the thought of publication, and solely by way of expression of the writer's own mind. Such verse must inevitably forfeit whatever advantage lies in the discipline of public criticism and the enforced conformity to accepted ways. On the other hand, it may often gain something through the habit of freedom and the unconventional utterance of daring thoughts. In the case of the present author, there was absolutely no choice in the matter; she must write thus, or not at all. A recluse by temperament and habit, literally spending years without setting her foot beyond the doorstep, and many more years during which her walks were strictly limited to her father's grounds, she habitually concealed her mind, like her person, from all but a very few friends; and it was with great difficulty that she was persuaded to print, during her lifetime, three or four poems. Yet she wrote verses in great abundance; and though brought curiously indifferent to all conventional rules, had yet a rigorous literary standard of her own, and often altered a word many times to suit an ear which had its own tenacious fastidiousness.

Miss Dickinson was born in Amherst, Mass., Dec. 10, 1830, and died there May 15, 1886. Her father, Hon. Edward Dickinson, was the leading lawyer of Amherst, and was treasurer of the well-known college there situated. It was his custom once a year to hold a large reception at his house, attended by all the families connected with the institution and by the leading people of the town. On these occasions his daughter Emily emerged from her wonted retirement and did her part as gracious hostess; nor would any one have known from her manner, I have been told, that this was not a daily occurrence. The annual occasion once past, she withdrew again into her seclusion, and except for a very few friends was as invisible to the world as if she had dwelt in a nunnery. For myself, although I had corresponded with her for many years, I saw her but twice face to face, and brought away the impression of something as unique and remote as Undine or Mignon or Thekla.

This selection from her poems is published to meet the desire of her personal friends, and especially of her surviving sister. It is believed that the thoughtful reader will find in these pages a quality more suggestive of the poetry of William Blake than of anything to be elsewhere found, — flashes of wholly original and profound insight into nature and life; words and phrases exhibiting an extraordinary vividness of descriptive and imaginative power, yet often set in a seemingly whimsical or even rugged frame. They are here published as they were written, with very few and superficial changes; although it is fair to say that the titles have been assigned, almost invariably, by the editors. In many cases these verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and a fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed. In other cases, as in the few poems of shipwreck or of mental conflict, we can only wonder at the gift of vivid imagination by which this recluse woman can delineate, by a few touches, the very crises of physical or mental struggle. And sometimes again we catch glimpses of a lyric strain, sustained perhaps but for a line or two at a time, and making the reader regret its sudden cessation. But the main quality of these poems is that of extraordinary grasp and insight, uttered with an uneven vigor sometimes exasperating, seemingly wayward, but really unsought and inevitable. After all, when a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence. As Ruskin wrote in his earlier and better days, "No weight nor mass nor beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought."

 — -Thomas Wentworth Higginson

This is my letter to the world,

    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!

I. LIFE.

I.

SUCCESS.

[Published in "A Masque of Poets"

at the request of "H.H.," the author's

fellow-townswoman and friend.]

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host

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!

II.

Our share of night to bear,

Our share of morning,

Our blank in bliss to fill,

Our blank in scorning.

Here a star, and there a star,

Some lose their way.

Here a mist, and there a mist,

Afterwards  —  day!

III.

ROUGE ET NOIR.

Soul, wilt thou toss again?

By just such a hazard

Hundreds have lost, indeed,

But tens have won an all.

Angels' breathless ballot

Lingers to record thee;

Imps in eager caucus

Raffle for my soul.

IV.

ROUGE GAGNE.

'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy!

If I should fail, what poverty!

And yet, as poor as I

Have ventured all upon a throw;

Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so

This side the victory!

Life is but life, and death but death!

Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!

And if, indeed, I fail,

At least to know the worst is sweet.

Defeat means nothing but defeat,

No drearier can prevail!

And if I gain,  —  oh, gun at sea,

Oh, bells that in the steeples be,

At first repeat it slow!

For heaven is a different thing

Conjectured, and waked sudden in,

And might o'erwhelm me so!

V.

Glee! The great storm is over!

Four have recovered the land;

Forty gone down together

Into the boiling sand.

Ring, for the scant salvation!

Toll, for the bonnie souls,  —

Neighbor and friend and bridegroom,

Spinning upon the shoals!

How they will tell the shipwreck

When winter shakes the door,

Till the children ask, "But the forty?

Did they come back no more?"

Then a silence suffuses the story,

And a softness the teller's eye;

And the children no further question,

And only the waves reply.

VI.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

VII.

ALMOST!

Within my reach!

I could have touched!

I might have chanced that way!

Soft sauntered through the village,

Sauntered as soft away!

So unsuspected violets

Within the fields lie low,

Too late for striving fingers

That passed, an hour ago.

VIII.

A wounded deer leaps highest,

I've heard the hunter tell;

'T is but the ecstasy of death,

And then the brake is still.

The smitten rock that gushes,

The trampled steel that springs;

A cheek is always redder

Just where the hectic stings!

Mirth is the mail of anguish,

In which it cautions arm,

Lest anybody spy the blood

And "You're hurt" exclaim!

IX.

The heart asks pleasure first,

And then, excuse from pain;

And then, those little anodynes

That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;

And then, if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor,

The liberty to die.

X.

IN A LIBRARY.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is

To meet an antique book,

In just the dress his century wore;

A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,

And warming in our own,

A passage back, or two, to make

To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,

His knowledge to unfold

On what concerns our mutual mind,

The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,

What competitions ran

When Plato was a certainty.

And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,

And Beatrice wore

The gown that Dante deified.

Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,

As one should come to town

And tell you all your dreams were true;

He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,

You beg him not to go;

Old volumes shake their vellum heads

And tantalize, just so.

XI.

Much madness is divinest sense

To a discerning eye;

Much sense the starkest madness.

'T is the majority

In this, as all, prevails.

Assent, and you are sane;

Demur,  —  you're straightway dangerous,

And handled with a chain.

XII.

I asked no other thing,

No other was denied.

I offered Being for it;

The mighty merchant smiled.

Brazil? He twirled a button,

Without a glance my way:

"But, madam, is there nothing else

That we can show to-day?"

XIII.

EXCLUSION.

The soul selects her own society,

Then shuts the door;

On her divine majority

Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing

At her low gate;

Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling

Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation

Choose one;

Then close the valves of her attention

Like stone.

XIV.

THE SECRET.

Some things that fly there be,  —

Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:

Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be,  —

Grief, hills, eternity:

Nor this behooveth me.

There are, that resting, rise.

Can I expound the skies?

How still the riddle lies!

XV.

THE LONELY HOUSE.

I know some lonely houses off the road

A robber 'd like the look of,  —

Wooden barred,

And windows hanging low,

Inviting to

A portico,

Where two could creep:

One hand the tools,

The other peep

To make sure all's asleep.

Old-fashioned eyes,

Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night,

With just a clock,  —

But they could gag the tick,

And mice won't bark;

And so the walls don't tell,

None will.

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir  —

An almanac's aware.

Was it the mat winked,

Or a nervous star?

The moon slides down the stair

To see who's there.

There's plunder,  —  where?

Tankard, or spoon,

Earring, or stone,

A watch, some ancient brooch

To match the grandmamma,

Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too,

Stealth's slow;

The sun has got as far

As the third sycamore.

Screams chanticleer,

"Who's there?"

And echoes, trains away,

Sneer  —  "Where?"

While the old couple, just astir,

Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

XVI.

To fight aloud is very brave,

But gallanter, I know,

Who charge within the bosom,

The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see,

Who fall, and none observe,

Whose dying eyes no country

Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession,

For such the angels go,

Rank after rank, with even feet

And uniforms of snow.

XVII.

DAWN.

When night is almost done,

And sunrise grows so near

That we can touch the spaces,

It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready,

And wonder we could care

For that old faded midnight

That frightened but an hour.

XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove,

Till we are stouter;

What they renounced,

Till we are less afraid;

How many times they bore

The faithful witness,

Till we are helped,

As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faith

That shone above the fagot;

Clear strains of hymn

The river could not drown;

Brave names of men

And celestial women,

Passed out of record

Into renown!

XIX.

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.

Pain has an element of blank;

It cannot recollect

When it began, or if there were

A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,

Its infinite realms contain

Its past, enlightened to perceive

New periods of pain.

XX.

I taste a liquor never brewed,

From tankards scooped in pearl;

Not all the vats upon the Rhine

Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,

And debauchee of dew,

Reeling, through 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!

XXI.

A BOOK.

He ate and drank the precious words,

His spirit grew robust;

He knew no more that he was poor,

Nor that his frame was dust.

He danced along the dingy days,

And this bequest of wings

Was but a book. What liberty

A loosened spirit brings!

XXII.

I had no time to hate, because

The grave would hinder me,

And life was not so ample I

Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since

Some industry must be,

The little toil of love, I thought,

Was large enough for me.

XXIII.

UNRETURNING.

'T was such a little, little boat

That toddled down the bay!

'T was such a gallant, gallant sea

That beckoned it away!

'T was such a greedy, greedy wave

That licked it from the coast;

Nor ever guessed the stately sails

My little craft was lost!

XXIV.

Whether my bark went down at sea,

Whether she met with gales,

Whether to isles enchanted

She bent her docile sails;

By what mystic mooring

She is held to-day,  —

This is the errand of the eye

Out upon the bay.

XXV.

Belshazzar had a letter,  —

He never had but one;

Belshazzar's correspondent

Concluded and begun

In that immortal copy

The conscience of us all

Can read without its glasses

On revelation's wall.

XXVI.

The brain within its groove

Runs evenly and true;

But let a splinter swerve,

'T were easier for you

To put the water back

When floods have slit the hills,

And scooped a turnpike for themselves,

And blotted out the mills!

II. LOVE.

I.

MINE.

Mine by the right of the white election!

Mine by the royal seal!

Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison

Bars cannot conceal!

Mine, here in vision and in veto!

Mine, by the grave's repeal

Titled, confirmed,  —  delirious charter!

Mine, while the ages steal!

II.

BEQUEST.

You left me, sweet, two legacies,  —

A legacy of love

A Heavenly Father would content,

Had He the offer of;

You left me boundaries of pain

Capacious as the sea,

Between eternity and time,

Your consciousness and me.

III.

Alter? When the hills do.

Falter? When the sun

Question if his glory

Be the perfect one.

Surfeit? When the daffodil

Doth of the dew:

Even as herself, O friend!

I will of you!

IV.

SUSPENSE.

Elysium is as far as to

The very nearest room,

If in that room a friend await

Felicity or doom.

What fortitude the soul contains,

That it can so endure