Bloom opon the Mountain—stated—
Blameless of a Name—
Efflorescence of a Sunset—
Reproduced—the same—
Blameless of a Name—
Efflorescence of a Sunset—
Reproduced—the same—
Seed, had I, my Purple Sowing
Should endow the Day—
Not a Tropic of a Twilight—
Show itself away—
Who for tilling—to the Mountain
Come, and disappear—
Whose be Her Renown, or fading,
Witness, is not here—
While I state—the Solemn Petals,
Far as North—and East,
Far as South and West—expanding—
Culminate—in Rest—
And the Mountain to the Evening
Fit His Countenance—
Indicating, by no Muscle—
The Experience—
Humpf. We don’t call Robert Frost Robert or Elizabeth Barrett Browning Elizabeth or Emily Bronte Emily. But Biographers, academic authors, and commentors alike often call Emily Dickinson Emily. Ever since her family met courteous inquiries with stony stares, we’ve been “protecting Emily”. I’m guilty too, I call her my difficult girlfriend.
Nevertheless, sing-songy perfect rhymes like “a name / the same”, “the day / away”, “disappear / is not here”, “East / West /Rest”, “Countenance / Experience” in every stanza just sound trite, no matter who wrote the poem. Maybe it’s a joke and she’s somewhere out there laughing at us as we gush. At any rate, it’s refreshing to hear an ED fan say, “in this poem, she does get a little purple in her diction, at least a little more so than usual, as can be heard in the phrase, “efflorescence of a sunset.”
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