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Emily Dickinson: Historical daguerreotypeHistorical daguerreotype

Emily Dickinson

Life dates: 1830 AD — 1886 AD

Poet of concentrated images and unsettled questions, whose preserved writing invites close reading. The linked early published series reflects editorial choices, rather than a modern manuscript-based edition.

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Life and writing

Emily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830 and died in 1886. During the particularly active writing period identified by scholars as 1858–1865, she composed, revised and preserved hundreds of poems. Her writing continued later in life. Reading that record as an ongoing practice of revision helps resist treating every brief line as a final, self-contained rule for living.

The linked Poems, Three Series, Complete gathers early published versions. Its editorial note warns readers about changes made to Dickinson’s punctuation, and the first series names Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson as editors. The complete signed anthology selection chosen here offers a starting point for reading an entire poem. Keep that anthology wording distinct from this edition and from later manuscript-based scholarship.

Reading this voice

Read the selected poem aloud and notice how its repeated ending gathers the acts described in the intervening lines. Then read a whole poem in the linked collection, paying attention to punctuation, pauses and the speaking voice. A speaker in a poem is not automatically a biographical statement by the author. Most other entries under this identity come from the supplied quotation collection and remain independently unverified. Profile life years do not replace their undated source coordinates.

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Quotations and sayings

01c. 1858 AD
We dream — it is good we are dreaming —It would hurt us — were we awake —But since it is playing — kill us,And we are playing — shriek —What harm? Men die — externally —It is a truth — of Blood —But we — are dying in Drama —And Drama — is never dead —Cautious — We jar each other —And either — open the eyes —Lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake —And the livid SurpriseCool us to Shafts of Granite —With just an Age — and Name —And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian —It's prudenter — to dream —
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05c. 1858 AD
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,One need not be a house;The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, one's own self encounterIn lonesome place.Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horror's least.The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,O'erlooking a superior spectreMore near.
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08c. 1858 AD
I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, eyes –I wonder if It weighs like Mine –Or has an Easier size.I wonder if They bore it long –Or did it just begin –I could not tell the Date of Mine –It feels so old a pain –I wonder if it hurts to live –And if They have to try –And whether – could They choose between –It would not be – to die –I note that Some – gone patient long –At length, renew their smile –An imitation of a LightThat has so little Oil –I wonder if when Years have piled –Some Thousands – on the Harm –That hurt them early – such a lapseCould give them any Balm.
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13c. 1858 AD
THE MOON was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smileUpon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will! And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.
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17c. 1858 AD
I did not reach thee, But my feet slip nearer every day; Three Rivers and a Hill to cross, One Desert and a Sea— I shall not count the journey one When I am telling thee. Two deserts—but the year is cold So that will help the sand— One desert crossed, the second one Will feel as cool as land. Sahara is too little price To pay for thy Right hand! The sea comes last. Step merry, feet! So short have we to go To play together we are prone, But we must labor now, The last shall be the lightest load That we have had to draw. The Sun goes crooked—that is night— Before he makes the bend We must have passed the middle sea, Almost we wish the end Were further off—too great it seems So near the Whole to stand. We step like plush, we stand like snow— The waters murmur now, Three rivers and the hill are passed, Two deserts and the sea! Now Death usurps my premium And gets the look at Thee.
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