Before the curtains were drawn on yesterday, I lay in my bed--a little island of light provided by my bedside lamp--and returned once again to Poems by Emily Dickenson. This summer's been hot and humid in Amherst, and at her rickety wooden desk by the window, her mind must have turned often to those virtues that would seem to dwarf her humble room...
I think in ways Emily Dickenson reminds me of my grandmother, Joy. Joy loved reading, and even though she never traveled much farther than from Kansas to Chicago to Texas, the expanse of her mind was vast. Those of us who have had the privilege of traveling the world would probably do well to remember Emily in her quaint quarters, with her hundreds of posthumously-published poems tucked away in the little ebony box under her bed.
I really enjoy the apparent simplicity of this poem, and the second stanza is unquestionably brilliant. (Note again the presence of approximate rhyme!)
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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
Cliff's Notes "Just-gimme-the-main-point" version:
Stanza 1: Takes much bravery to fight inner despair
Stanza 2: This is a bravery that people don't recognize
Stanza 3: Nonsensical Dickensonian regression on angels. Radon leak in Emily's cabin?
~DH
I see you successfully utilized the linking function when creating this post, and found a counter for your blog. Congrats!!
By the way..."an island of light provided by my bedside lamp"...whoa! Do you talk like that in your progress notes?
"The patient's bowel sounds - like a rolling thunder from a summer storm - rumbled in my stethoscope during my physical exam."
You honor your Grandmother well!
Ha, ha, Doctor J. I guess I was feeling a bit poetic at the time.
You embarrass me, DH. Poetry isn't about "gimme the main point." It's about the journey. And it's about pretending you understand it even when you don't.
Post a Comment