Transcendental Legacy in Literature

Selected "Transcendental" Poems of Emily Dickinson

J. 303, "The Soul Selects her own Society" The Soul selects her own Society-- Then--shuts the Door -- To her divine Majority -- Present no more-- Unmoved --she notes the Chariots--pausing At her low Gate -- Unmoved --an Emperor be kneeling Upon her Mat -- I've known her--from an ample nation -- Choose One -- Then--close the Valves of her attention-- Like Stone -- c. 1862 [1890] Commentary on the poem by Robert Luscher J. 306 The Soul's Superior instants Occur to Her -- alone -- When friend -- and Earth's occasion Have infinite withdrawn -- Or She -- Herself -- ascended To too remote a Height For lower Recognition Than Her Omnipotent -- This Mortal Abolition Is seldom -- but as fair As Apparition -- subject To Autocratic Air -- Eternity's disclosure To favorites -- a few -- Of the Colossal substance Of Immortality J. 321 Of all the Sounds despatched abroad, There's not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boughs -- That phraseless Melody -- The Wind does -- working like a Hand, Whose fingers Comb the Sky -- Then quiver down -- with tufts of Tune -- Permitted Gods, and me -- Inheritance, it is, to us -- Beyond the Art to Earn -- Beyond the trait to take away By Robber, since the Gain Is gotten not of fingers -- And inner than the Bone -- Hid golden, for the whole of Days, And even in the Urn, I cannot vouch the merry Dust Do not arise and play In some odd fashion of its own, Some quainter Holiday, When Winds go round and round in Bands -- And thrum upon the door, And Birds take places, overhead, To bear them Orchestra. I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs, If such an Outcast be -- Who never heard that fleshless Chant -- Rise -- solemn -- on the Tree, As if some Caravan of Sound Off Deserts, in the Sky, Had parted Rank, Then knit, and swept -- In Seamless Company -- J. 324 Some keep the Sabbath going to Church -- I keep it, staying at Home -- With a Bobolink for a Chorister -- And an Orchard, for a Dome -- Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice -- I just wear my Wings -- And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church, Our little Sexton -- sings. God preaches, a noted Clergyman -- And the sermon is never long, So instead of getting to Heaven, at least -- I'm going, all along. J. 341 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- Of Ground, or Air, or Ought-- A Wooden way 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. c. 1862 (1929) J. 355 'Tis Opposites -- entice -- Deformed Men -- ponder Grace -- Bright fires -- the Blanketless -- The Lost -- Day's face -- The Blind -- esteem it be Enough Estate -- to see -- The Captive -- strangles new -- For deeming -- Beggars -- play -- To lack -- enamor Thee -- Tho' the Divinity -- Be only Me -- J. 365 Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat? Then crouch within the door -- Red -- is the Fire's common tint -- But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame's conditions, It quivers from the Forge Without a color, but the light Of unanointed Blaze. Least Village has its Blacksmith Whose Anvil's even ring Stands symbol for the finer Forge That soundless tugs -- within -- Refining these impatient Ores With Hammer, and with Blaze Until the Designated Light Repudiate the Forge -- J. 435 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-- c. 1862 (1890) J. 448 (excerpt) This was a Poet--It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings-- And Attar so immense From the familiar species That perished by the Door-- We wonder it was not Ourselves Arrested it -- before -- Of Pictures, the Discloser -- The Poet -- it is He -- Entitles Us -- by Contrast -- To ceaseless Poverty -- Of portion -- so unconscious -- The Robbing -- could not harm -- Himself -- to Him -- a Fortune -- Exterior -- to Time -- c. 1862 (1929) J. 449 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--Themself are One-- We Brethren are," He said-- And so, as Kinsmen, met at Night-- We talked between the Rooms-- Until the Moss had reached our lips-- And covered up--our names-- c. 1862 (1980) J 508 I'm ceded--I've stopped being Theirs-- The name They dropped upon my face With water, in the country church Is finished using, now, And They can put it with my Dolls, My childhood, and the string of spools, I've finished threading--too-- Baptized, before, without the choice, But this time, consciously, of Grace-- Unto supremest name-- Called to my Full--The Crescent dropped-- Existence's whole Arc, filled up With one small Diadem My second Rank--too small the first-- Crowned--Crowing--on my Father's breast-- A half unconscious Queen-- But this time--Adequate--Erect, With Will to choose, or to reject, And I choose, just a Crown-- c. 1862 (1890) J 657 I dwell in Possibility-- A fairer House than Prose-- More numerous of Windows-- Superior--for Doors-- Of Chambers as the Cedars-- Impregnate of Eye-- And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky-- Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This-- The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise-- c. 1862 (1929) J. 732 She rose to His Requirement-- Dropt the Playthings of Her life To take the honorable Work Of Woman, and of Wife-- If ought She missed in Her new Day, Of Amplitude, or Awe-- Or first Prospective-- Or the Gold In using, wear away, It lay unmentioned--as the Sea Develop Pearl, and Weed, But only to HImself--be known The Fathoms they abide. J. 271 A solemn thing--it was--I said-- A woman--white--to be-- And wear--if God should count me fit-- Her blameless mystery-- A halllowed thing--to drop a life Into the purple well-- Too plummetless--that it return-- Eternity--until-- I pondered how the bliss would look-- And would it feel as big-- When I could take it in my hand-- As hovering--seen--through fog-- And then--the size of this "small" life-- The Sages--call it small-- Swelled--like Horizons--in my vest-- And I sneered--softly--"small"!