Fascicle 16 Emily Dickinson Nicole Lottig Brooke Stewart Brooke Lawrence Alex Mielnicki

Pitt-Greensburg Digital Humanities project on Newtfire.org

Adapted from original project by Michele Ierardi at

Fascicle 16: Poem 1. 1601/327/variant Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1601 Poem 1 (J 327: 1862/1891) Before I got my eye put out— I liked as well to see As other Creatures, that have Eyes— And know no other way— But were it told to me, Today, That I might have the Sky For mine, I tell you that my Heart Would split, for size of me— The Meadows—mine— The Mountains—mine— All Forests—Stintless Stars— As much of noon, as I could take— Between my finite Eyes— The Motions of the Dipping Birds— The Lightning's jointed Road— Morning's Amber Road— For mine—to look at when I liked The news would strike me dead— So safer—guess—with just my soul Upon the window pane Where other Creatures put their Eyes Incautious of the Sun— Poem 2. (J 607: 1862/1929) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1602 Poem 2. (J 607: 1862/1929) Of nearness to her Sundered Things The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—seems— The Shapes we buried, dwell about, Familiar, in the Rooms— Untarnished by the Sepulchre, The Our Mouldering Playmate comes— In just the Jacket that he wore— Long buttoned in the Mold Since we—old mornings, Children—played— Divided by a world— The Grave yields back her Robberies— The Years, our pilfered Things— Bright Knots of Apparitions Salute us with their wings— As we—it were—that perished— Themself—had just remained till we rejoin them— And 'twas they, and not ourself That mourned. Poem 3 (J 279: 1861/1896) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1603 Poem 3 (J 279: 1861/1896) Tie the Strings to my Life, My Lord, Then, I am ready to go! Just look at the Horses— Rapid! That will do! Put me in on the firmest tightest highest— side— So I shall never fall— For we must ride to the Judgment— And it's partly, down Hill— And it's many a mile—the Hills— But I never mind the steepest Bridges And I never mind the Sea— Held fast in Everlasting Race— By my own Choice, and Thee— Goodbye to the Life I used to live— And the World I used to know— And kiss the Hills, for me, just once— Then— Now Here's a keepsake for I am ready to go! Poem 4 (J 241: 1861/1890) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1604 Poem 4 (J 241: 1861/1890) I like a look of Agony, Because I know it's true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate a Throe— Death comes The Eyes glaze once—and—that is Death— Impossible to feign The Beads upon the Forehead By homely Anguish strung. Poem 5 (J 280: 1861/1896) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1605 Poem 5 (J 280: 1861/1896) I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it seemed That Sense was breaking through— And when they were all seated, A Service, like a Drum— Kept beating—beating—till I thought My Mind was going numb— And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of lead, again, Then Space began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here— And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down— And hit a World, at every plunge, Crash— And Finished And Got through— knowing—then— Poem 6 (J 281: 1861/1935) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1606 Poem 6 (J 281: 1861/1935) 'Tis so appalling—it exhilarates— So over Horror, it half Captivates— So over Horror, it dumb fascinates— The Soul stares after it, secure— To know the worst, leaves no dread more— A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more— To scan a Ghost, is faint— But grappling, conquers it— How easy Torment, now— Suspense kept sawing so— The Truth, is Bald, and Cold— But that will hold— If any are not sure— We show them—prayer— But we, who know, Stop hoping, now— Looking at Death, is Dying— Just let go the Breath— And not the pillow at your Cheek So Slumbereth— Others, Can wrestle— Yours, is done— And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come, It sets the Fright at liberty— And Terror's free— Gay, Ghastly, Holiday! Poem 7. (J 282: 1861/1929) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1607 Poem 7. (J 282: 1861/1929) How noteless Men and Pleiads, stand, Until a sudden sky Reveals the fact that One is rapt Forever from the Eye— Members of the Invisible, Existing while we stare, In Leagueless Opportunity, O'ertakeless, as the Air— Why didn't we detain Them? retain Them? detain it? The Heavens with a smile, Sweep by our disappointed Heads Without a syllable— But deign no syllable Poem 8 (J 242: 1861/1945) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1608 Poem 8 (J 242: 1861/1945) When we stand on top of Things— And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it— And Mirrors on the scene— Just laying light—no soul will wink Except it have a flaw— The Sound ones, like the Hills —shall stand— —stand up— No Lightening, scares away— drives away— The Perfect, nowhere be afraid— They bear their dauntless Heads, fearless—Heads, tranquil—Heads, Where others, dare not go at Noon, walk at noon, Protected by their deeds— The Stars dare shine occasionally Upon a spotted World— And Suns, go surer, for their Proof, As if An Axle, held— A Muscle—held Fascicle 16: Poem 9 (J 445: 1862/1896) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1609 Poem 9 (J 445: 1862/1896) 'Twas just this time, last year, I died. I know I heard the Corn, When I was carried by the Farms— It had the Tassels on— I thought how yellow it would look— When Richard went to mill— And then, I wanted to get out, But something held my will. I thought just how red—Apples wedged The Stubble's joints between— And carts stooping round the fields To take the Pumpkins in— I wondered which would miss me, least, And when Thanksgiving, came, If father'd multiply the plates— To make an even Sum— And would it blur the Christmas glee My Stocking hand too high For any Santa Claus to reach The Altitude of me— But this sort, grieved myself, And so, I thought the other way, And just this time, some perfect year— Themself, should come to me— Fascicle 16: Poem 10 (J 608: 1862/1890) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1610 Poem 10 (J 608: 1862/1890) Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my father's Lodge As much abasheth me! Of Life? 'Twere odd I fear thing That comprehendeth me In one or two existences more—existences Just as the case may be As Deity decree— Of Resurrection? Is the East Afraid to trust the Morn With her fastidious forehead? As soon impeach my Crown! Fascicle 16: Poem 11 (J 446: 1862/1914) Emily Dickinson

Fascicle 16: Dickinson's variants and published versions

 1611 Poem 11 (J 446: 1862/1914) He showed me Hights I never saw— "Would'st Climb," —He said? I said—"Not so"— "With me—" He said—"With me"? He showed me Secrets—Morning's Nest— The Rope the Nights were put across— "And now—"Would'st have me for a Guest"? I could not find my "Yes". And then, He brake His Life—And lo, A Light, for me, did solemn glow, The steadier, as my face withdrew The larger—as my face withdrew And could I, further, "No"?