841.1864.Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning

841.1864.Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman’s Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?

Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—
Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—

Yet was not the foe—of any—
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me—afraid.

Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—

Best—at Setting—as is Nature’s—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other’s eyes.

………………………………………………………………………………..

My biographical interpretation of F841, ‘Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—‘:

When Wadsworth arrived at my front door on that glorious late summer day in 1860 (F325,1862), I had not yet been struck by lightning. Lightning warns us of its power to kill.
.
Nor had I been maimed by a stone a boy threw, nor by a sportsman’s rifle. I did not know I had an enemy.
.
I was robbed that day. I was whole when Wadsworth came and, when he left, my Mansion’s veil was torn. The Sun vanished from my life, and I no longer enjoyed nature as I did before.
.
Before he came, I was not the foe of any creature. Not even the smallest bird living in our orchard was afraid of me.
.
And the strangest thing is that I still love Wadsworth, even though he seduced me. I die of shame each day that passes, but at the same time his recognition of me is the Sun of my life.
.
Just as a sunset is most inspiring as the Sun sinks behind the horizon, the best part of our summer day was as he was leaving. Neither spoke, but we peered deep into each other’s eyes and saw an infinite sunrise.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

ED’s explanation of F841, ‘Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—’, as I, LarryB, imagine it:

In my letter to Wadsworth in spring 1958 (JL187, Master Letter 1), I told him “Each Sabbath on the Sea, makes me count the Sabbaths, till we meet on shore.” Finally, in late Summer 1860, he did come to visit me for an afternoon. It was a beautiful afternoon that I will always remember (F325, ‘There came a Day—at Summer’s full’). I was deeply in love with him and even called him “Master”. He wasn’t stern like my father and seemed to care for me as a friend.

Stanza 1 of 7:

“There came a Day—at Summer’s full,
Entirely for me—
I thought that such—were for the Saints—
Where Resurrections—be—”

We walked together in our orchard, and when we were in a secluded spot, he suggested we sit down. There, “he seemed almost overpowered by a spasm of gloom. I said, “You are troubled”. Shivering as he spoke, “My Life is full of dark secrets,” he said ”. (JL776 to James D. Clark, late 1882):

“I knew him a “Man of sorrow,” and once when he seemed almost overpowered by a spasm of gloom, I said “You are troubled.” Shivering as he spoke, “My Life is full of dark secrets” he said. He never spoke of himself, and encroachment I know would have slain him.”
.
I felt sorrow for his pain and tried to sooth him. Little did I know that his plan was to gain my sympathy and trust. He told me that we could meet and marry in Heaven and I believed him (F325, January 1882). He succeeded in seducing me, and that evening we parted silently, speaking only with love in our eyes.

Stanzas 6-7:

“And so when all the time had failed—
Without external sound—
Each—bound the other’s Crucifix—
We gave no other Bond—

Sufficient troth—that we shall rise—
Deposed—at length—the Grave—
To that new Marriage—
Justified—through Calvaries of Love!”

Or so I thought.

Now I think he took the train back to Philadelphia, satisfied that he had accomplished his mission. Yet, despite knowing he took advantage of my naiveite, I still love him and will continue loving him until I die (JL766 to James D Clark, August 1882):

“In a intimacy of many years with the beloved Clergyman, I have never before spoken with one who knew him, and his Life was so shy and his tastes so unknown, that grief for him seems almost unshared.

“He was my Shepherd from “Little Girl”hood and I cannot conjecture a world without him, so noble was he always – so fathomless – so gentle”.

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After commenting on Poems 1-763 (Franklin) on The Prowling Bee’, I am convinced that (virtually) all of Emily Dickinson’s (ED’s) poems have a factual historical level in addition to their various poetic levels of meaning. The reason for her instant and continuing public adulation (1890 - present) was and is, by far, poetic. She is one of the "Greats" that she always dreamed to be, despite her lifelong refusal to publish. That refusal freed her from criticism and allowed her to explore the outer boundaries of poetic power.

More than a century of scholarly research has resulted in somewhere between 10,000 and 100,000 books and published academic papers about ED. A large majority of these publications focus only on the “poetic levels” of one or more of ED’s poems. Publications that consider both the “historic level” and “poetic levels” comprise a small minority. Publications that focus only on the factual history of her life probably number less than 100. (All numbers in this paragraph are my estimates.)

Unfortunately for ED’s universe of readers, these two basic levels (historical and poetic) cannot be separated into two ivory towers. Every history-level publication that I know of includes at least some discussion of the poetic level(s).

The reverse is not true. In fact, authors of the “poetry-level” school seem to avoid commenting on the historical level, sometimes admonishing that a poem must stand on its own, without concern for its historical roots. To my knowledge, there are (virtually) no published “history-level” books or articles that totally ignore ED’s poems and their poetic levels.

Of course, ED’s refusal to publish her poems was only possible because of lifelong financial and daily social/housekeeping support by her family, especially her father and sister, respectively. In addition, throughout her life, the Dickinsons hired servants, first Negro and later Irish, some of whom became much more than housekeepers for ED.

My point is that our appreciation of ED's poems can be enhanced by understanding both poetic and historical levels of her sound and sense. We impoverish ourselves if we ignore their historical base.