"I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died"

One last really famous Emily Dickinson poem.  

"I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died"

by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died - 

The Stillness in the Room 

Was like the Stillness in the Air - 

Between the Heaves of Storm - 

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry - 

And Breaths were gathering firm 

For that last Onset - when the King 

Be witnessed - in the Room - 

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away 

What portion of me be 

Assignable - and then it was 

There interposed a Fly - 

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz - 

Between the light - and me - 

And then the Windows failed - and then 

I could not see to see -

Discussion Questions:

1.  Analyze this poem!  Why would a poem about death be focused on a fly?

"A narrow Fellow in the Grass"

Emily Dickinson loved gardening and nature.  She wrote a lot about flowers and wild animals, including this poem.  This one is not particularly famous, but I like it, so I'm including it.

"A narrow Fellow in the Grass"

by Emily Dickinson

A narrow Fellow in the Grass 

Occasionally rides - 

You may have met him? Did you not 

His notice instant is - 

The Grass divides as with a Comb, 

A spotted Shaft is seen, 

And then it closes at your Feet 

And opens further on - 

He likes a Boggy Acre - 

A Floor too cool for Corn - 

But when a Boy and Barefoot 

I more than once at Noon 

Have passed I thought a Whip Lash 

Unbraiding in the Sun 

When stooping to secure it 

It wrinkled And was gone - 

Several of Nature’s People 

I know, and they know me 

I feel for them a transport 

Of Cordiality 

But never met this Fellow 

Attended or alone 

Without a tighter Breathing 

And Zero at the Bone.

Discussion Questions:

1.  What is the narrator's attitude toward snakes?  Support with evidence from the text.

2.  What do you think "Zero at the Bone" means?

"'Hope' is the thing with feathers"

This might also be Emily Dickinson's most-famous poem.  I'm not sure whether this or yesterday's poem get quoted and shared more often.

"'Hope' is a thing with feathers"

by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - 

That perches in the soul - 

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm - 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me.

Discussion Questions:

1.  What poetic devices do you find in this poem?

2.  What is Dickinson saying about the nature of hope?

"Because I could not stop for death"

Many of Dickinson's poems had no titles.  Like earlier poems we studied, they are generally referred to by their first lines in lieu of a title.

This is probably her most-famous poem.  It shows up in collections of classic poetry a lot.

"Because I could not stop for death"

by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – 

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality. 

We slowly drove – He knew no haste 

And I had put away 

My labor and my leisure too, 

For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove 

At Recess – in the Ring – 

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed Us – 

The Dews drew quivering and Chill – 

For only Gossamer, my Gown – 

My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed 

A Swelling of the Ground – 

The Roof was scarcely visible – 

The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet 

Feels shorter than the Day 

I first surmised the Horses' Heads 

Were toward Eternity –

Discussion Questions:

1.  Why does she say Death "kindly" stopped for her?  How could death be kind?

2.  What is the "house that seemed a swelling of the ground"?

3.  Why do you think this poem is so popular/famous?

Introducing Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)

Emily Dickinson was, by all accounts, eccentric.  

She was born into a prominent Massachusetts family in 1830, and had a pretty typical childhood and teen years for the daughter of a New England lawyer.  She attended a local school as a child, though she missed school periodically because she had a tendency to be sickly.  In her later teens, she went to Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, one of the oldest women's colleges in the US.  She left college after less than a year and returned home, where she grew more and more reclusive.  By the end of her life, she refused to leave her bedroom at all, much less her home.  She also insisted on wearing only white for many years.  She sometimes refused to speak to people face-to-face, but would only talk to them through a closed door.  Definitely eccentric.

Emily Dickinson loved to write poetry -- we have almost 1800 of her poems still today!!!  She often sent poems to family and friends (she was also a prolific letter writer), but only ten of her poems were published while she was still alive.  Her sister Lavinia discovered a huge stash of poems after Emily died in 1886, and a heavily edited collection of them was published by some close friends.

The poems in that first collection were heavily edited because Emily Dickinson did not like to follow popular poetic conventions of the day, and she sometimes also didn't do things like capitalize the first word of a new line.  She loved dashes.  She wrote very short lines.  This seems pretty normal to us now, but at the time, it was new and weird and quirky.

It wasn't until 1955 that a full collection of her un-edited poetry was finally made available to the public. 

Dickinson loved the Romantic poetry of William Wordsworth and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, as well the poetry of her fellow American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson.  Both Emerson and Dickinson are often considered American Romantic poets.  She also loved Shakespeare's writing, and liked Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte so much, she named her dog Carlo after a dog in the book.

The deaths of several close friends when she was a teen and young adult caused Dickinson a lot of distress.  Today, we would probably say she became clinically depressed, though in her time, she was just called "melancholy."  This was part of why she gradually became more and more reclusive.  Her poetry focuses a lot on death, beauty, nature, and sorrow.  

We don't know why Emily Dickinson eventually withdrew so much into herself.  People speculate she may have suffered from agoraphobia (severe anxiety caused by being outside the environment you consider safe, often leading to an inability to leave your home) or from a chronic disease like epilepsy that caused seizures or had embarrassing side effects like tremors.  But that is only speculation.  She died at age 55, in 1886, after suffering for several years from what her physician called Bright's Disease.

It's uncertain if Emily Dickinson was a Christian.  She did attend church as a child, and attended a revival in 1845 that made her briefly quite religiously zealous.  But she did not attend church services as an adult.  Some of her poems have deeply Christian subjects and themes, while others reflect the Transcendentalism philosophy.  Transcendentalism teaches that people are inherently good and can work to transcend the corrupting influences of society and other people and attain true goodness.  It was very popular in New England in the first half of the 1800s -- if it sounds familiar to you, it's probably because Louisa May Alcott and her family were Transcendentalists and she espouses that philosophy in Little Women.

Random fun fact: Taylor Swift is reportedly Emily Dickinson's sixth cousin, three times removed.

"The Raven"

I debated whether or not to include "The Raven" in our study of Poe's poetry this week.  On the one hand, I know Sadie has read it for school before, and I'm guessing Nadia has also read it.  It's soooooo famous, and Poe has written so many other poems that are less-famous that we could study instead.

On the other hand... it's sooooooooo famous that it feels almost wrong somehow to just skip it.  So, we'll study it.  

I've read that Poe actually borrowed this rhyme scheme and meter from a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  That poem?  "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," the one that mentioned Robert Browning by name, caught his attention, inspired Robert to write Elizabeth a letter, and you know how all that turned out.

"The Raven"

by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— 

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— 

           Only this and nothing more.” 

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow 

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 

           Nameless here for evermore. 

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— 

           This it is and nothing more.” 

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— 

           Darkness there and nothing more. 

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; 

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— 

           Merely this and nothing more. 

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; 

    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— 

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 

           ’Tis the wind and nothing more!” 

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; 

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— 

           Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, 

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” 

           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; 

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

           With such name as “Nevermore.” 

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— 

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” 

           Then the bird said “Nevermore.” 

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store 

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— 

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

           Of ‘Never—nevermore’.” 

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; 

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

           Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” 

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; 

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, 

           She shall press, ah, nevermore! 

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee 

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” 

           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— 

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— 

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” 

           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— 

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” 

           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— 

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! 

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” 

           Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” 

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, 

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

           Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Discussion Questions:

1.  What happens to the speaker at the end of this poem?  Why might Poe not have said concretely what happens?

2.  Why is this poem so popular?  What do you think makes it so special and beloved by so many people?

3.  Do you like this poem?  Why or why not?

"Annabel Lee"

This is probably Poe's second-most-famous poem.  It's creepy, but also sweet.  But also creepy.  Not, like, super creepy full of spiders and skulls and rotting wedding cakes or anything... but just a little creepy.  And that's what we expect from Edgar Allan Poe, to be honest.  I've shared some of his not-creepy poetry because he gets kind of stereotyped with the horror stories and chilling poems, and I wanted you to see that he is more than tale-telling hearts and croaking ravens.  But let's face it: he excelled at the creepier stuff.  And why not enjoy his masterful writing?

"Annabel Lee"

by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago, 

    In a kingdom by the sea, 

That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;-- 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

    Than to love and be loved by me. 

She was a child and I was a child, 

    In this kingdom by the sea, 

But we loved with a love that was more than love-- 

    I and my Annabel Lee-- 

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

    Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

    In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud by night 

    Chilling my Annabel Lee; 

So that her high-born kinsman came 

    And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre 

    In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, 

    Went envying her and me:-- 

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 

    In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling 

    And killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

    Of those who were older than we-- 

    Of many far wiser than we- 

And neither the angels in Heaven above, 

    Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:-- 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 

    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes 

    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 

Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, 

    In her sepulchre there by the sea-- 

    In her tomb by the side of the sea.

Discussion Questions:

1.  Do you agree with me that this is an enjoyable sort of creepiness?  Or is it just yucky, to you?  (No wrong answers here -- I'm curious.)

2.  Is this a love poem?  Why, or why not?

3.  What are some poetic devices Poe uses here?

"Sonnet -- To Science"

A rather different sort of sonnet from the ones we've studied so far...

"Sonnet -- To Science"

by Edgar Allan Poe

SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art! 

   Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. 

Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, 

    Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? 

How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, 

    Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering 

To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies 

    Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? 

Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? 

    And driven the Hamadryad from the wood 

To seek a shelter in some happier star? 

    Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, 

       The Elfin from the green grass, and from me 

       The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Discussion Questions:

1.  Why does Poe use so many allusions to mythology and fantasy in a poem that's supposed to be about science?

2.  Why write this poem in the form of a sonnet, which is usually used for love poetry?

"Eldorado"

I first heard this poem in a John Wayne movie, of all places.  A character recites it early in the film El Dorado (1966), which was a big favorite of mine when I was a teen.  It wasn't until I was in college that I discovered this was a real poem, and that it was written by Edgar Allan Poe!

Much more recently, I used this poem to set up a treasure map in my book A Noble Companion, and based an unseen (but mentioned) character on the knight in this poem.

"Eldorado"

by Edgar Allan Poe

Gaily bedight, 

    A gallant knight, 

In sunshine and in shadow, 

    Had journeyed long, 

    Singing a song, 

In search of Eldorado. 

    But he grew old— 

    This knight so bold— 

And o’er his heart a shadow— 

    Fell as he found 

    No spot of ground 

That looked like Eldorado. 

    And, as his strength 

    Failed him at length, 

He met a pilgrim shadow— 

    ‘Shadow,’ said he, 

   ‘Where can it be— 

This land of Eldorado?’ 

    ‘Over the Mountains 

    Of the Moon, 

Down the Valley of the Shadow, 

    Ride, boldly ride,’ 

    The shade replied,— 

‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

NOTES: 

1.  El Dorado was a mythical city of gold that 16th-century Spanish colonists wanted to find in South America.

2.  Also, "bedight" means "bedeck" or "array."  So if you are "gaily bedight," you are all decked out in bright and fancy, colorful clothes.

Discussion Questions:

1. What do you think the point or message of this poem is? 

A Guest Introduction to Edgar Allan Poe

Surprise!  This week, our poet gets introduced by Sadie!  That's because she did a history project about him last year, so she knows more interesting facts about him than I do.  Take it away, Sadie!

Edgar Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, on January 19, 1809. In 1810, his father, David Poe, Jr., abandoned his family. About a year after that, Poe’s mother, Elizabeth Poe, died.

Poe was taken in by the Allan family, who lived in Richmond, Virginia. They never actually adopted him, but they served as a foster family. They are the reason his name became Edgar Allan Poe. In 1815, the Allans sailed to the United Kingdom and took Poe with them. Five years later, in 1820, they moved back to Richmond.

In 1836, Poe married his cousin, Virginia Clemm. She was thirteen at the time, and Poe was twenty-seven. Virginia died of tuberculosis in 1847, at the age of twenty-four.

Edgar Allan Poe invented the detective fiction genre, and he is the only American to have invented a book genre.

His short story “The Tell-Tale Heart” was first published in January, 1843. He was paid ten dollars for it, which would be about $300 today.

Poe was tending to his wife, who was dying of tuberculosis, while he was writing his famous poem “The Raven.” Initially, Poe debated whether the bird ought to be a raven or a parrot, before deciding that the colorful tropical bird wasn’t right for the poem.

“The Raven” was first published in 1845. It was rejected by George Rex Graham, the first publisher Poe approached, but Graham felt so bad about Poe’s lack of money that he gave Poe fifteen dollars anyway. The American Review paid him nine dollars for it.

Edgar Allan Poe died on October 7, 1849. He had been missing for a few days before reappearing in Baltimore incoherent and with no idea where he’d been for the past few days. He was wearing someone else’s clothes, and no one is certain what he died of. He was originally buried in the back corner of an obscure graveyard, but his body was later moved to a more prominent place that allowed for more visitors.

"Pippa's Song"

This is a short poem that is part of a play written in rhyming verse called Pippa Passes.  The concept of the play is that an innocent young girl walks past a series of people in various stages and walks of life, and makes up little songs to herself about what she believes is going on in their lives.  This is one little song she sings, and the most famous bit of the whole play.  (If you've read Anne of Green Gables recently, you may remember it getting quoted in that.)

"Pippa's Song"

by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring, 

And day's at the morn; 

Morning's at seven; 

The hill-side's dew-pearl'd; 

The lark's on the wing; 

The snail's on the thorn; 

God's in His heaven, 

All's right with the world!

Discussion Questions:

1.  Analyze this poem!

"Home Thoughts from Abroad"

Robert Browning wrote this poem in 1845 while he was visiting Italy.  That was the same year he began corresponding with Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but I don't know if they were already exchanging letters by the time he wrote this or not.

"Home Thoughts from Abroad"

by Robert Browning

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England—now! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Discussion Questions:

1.  This has a bizarrely complex rhyme scheme.  The first stanza is ABABCCDD, and the second is AABCBCDDEEFF.  What might be some reasons Browning chose to scatter-shot his rhyming that way instead of writing a poem with a more conventional rhyme scheme?

2.  This is considered one of the great Romantic poems.  What details in this poem really give it a Romantic flavor?  (You can reread this post on Wordsworth for a refresher on Romantic poetry.)

"Memorabilia"

This is a very short "dramatic monologue," and probably based on an actual encounter Browning had with someone who had met the famous Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.  Shelley died when Browning was only ten years old, so they never had a chance to meet, but Browning really admired Shelley's poetry.

(Just FYI: Percy Bysshe Shelley was married to Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein.)

"Memorabilia"

by Robert Browning

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 

And did he stop and speak to you? 

And did you speak to him again? 

How strange it seems, and new! 

But you were living before that, 

And you are living after, 

And the memory I started at— 

My starting moves your laughter! 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 

And a certain use in the world no doubt, 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 

'Mid the blank miles round about: 

For there I picked up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather— 

Well, I forget the rest.

Discussion Questions:

1.  What connection is there between the two events of a man meeting a great poet and a man finding an eagle feather?

2.  What are some poetic devices Browning uses in this poem?

3.  Have you ever picked up a simple item while on a trip that became an important bit of memorabilia for you?

"My Last Duchess"

We'll just go ahead and kick off with one of my favorite Robert Browning poems, which is also one of his most-well-known.  This is one of those "dramatic monologues" I mentioned yesterday, which read like a character in a play speaking to someone else, and we get to overhear that.  Gradually, come to understand the character of the speaker and see a glimpse of who they are underneath their words.

"My Last Duchess"

by Robert Browning

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will’t please you sit and look at her? 

I said “Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not 

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps 

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace—all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked 

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 

In speech—which I have not—to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse— 

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without 

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master’s known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretense 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Discussion Questions:

1.  What happened to this duke's last wife?

2.  Why?

3.  What is he hoping to do now?

4.  What clues do we have to the duke's character and attitudes?

5.  What clues do we have to the late duchess's character and attitudes?

Introducing Robert Browning

This is going to be fairly short, since I shared a ton about Robert Browning in the post about his wife a couple weeks ago.

Robert Browning
(1812-1889)

Robert Browning was born into a well-to-do British family in 1812.  His father was a clerk for the Bank of England and a devoted reader -- he had about 6,000 books in his personal collection.  Robert's mother was a talented musician.  Both parents encouraged their two children to read and study the arts.

Robert began writing poetry at a very early age and finished his first whole book of poetry at age twelve.  No one would print it, so he destroyed it and began again.  He became enamored with the Romantic poets, such as William Wordsworth, and his first published poem was written as an homage to Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.  That appeared in 1834, and he had some small success with poems and a few plays over the next ten years.  During this time, he continued to live at home once he had finished his boarding school education.

In 1845, he began corresponding with fellow poet Elizabeth Barrett, and they married in 1846.  The Brownings moved to Italy, where they lived mainly on the money Elizabeth had inherited from her grandmother.  Their only child, Robert Barrett "Pen" Browning, was born there.  

After Elizabeth died in 1861, Robert and Pen moved back to England.  Robert's younger sister moved in with them to keep house.  Robert was an outspoken abolitionist and was vocal in his support of the United States during their Civil War.  He also spoke and wrote against anti-Semitism and cruelty to animals.

Robert was raised a Protestant, but embraced atheism as a young man.  After marrying Elizabeth, who was a devout Christian, he appears to have returned to the faith, though he remained a critic of people who believed God existed simply because they were supposed to.

When he returned to England and settled in London, Robert's poetry career began to really take off.  Up until that time, his wife had been far more famous and celebrated than he was (in fact, she was a serious contender for being named Britain's next Poet Laureate for a while).  But in 1868, he published a book-length poem in blank verse, The Ring and the Book, which took him five years to write and polish, and it brought he immense attention and acclaim.  He spent the rest of his life traveling and writing poetry, and never remarried.  He died in his son Pen's home in Venice in 1889.

Most of Robert Browning's poems are "dramatic monologues," which means they're words spoken by some fictitious character to someone else.  During the poem, the speaker's attitudes and beliefs and personality are slowly revealed by what they say.  We'll be studying one of his most famous dramatic monologues this week.

I'll end this with something kind of random and cool: 

This is a cast of Elizabeth and Robert's hands made by the artist Harriet Goodhue Hosmer in 1853.  She later made several bronze and plaster sculptures from the original cast.  I find it really sweet and lovely, and it makes them feel very human and real, somehow.  To me, anyway! 

No new poetry this week!

"Perplexed Music"

Try reading this one out loud -- it is easier to understand that way, I think.

"Perplexed Music"

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Experience, like a pale musician, holds 

A dulcimer of patience in his hand; 

Whence harmonies we cannot understand 

Of God's will in his worlds, the strain unfolds 

In sad, perplexed minors. Deathly colds 

Fall on us while we hear, and countermand 

Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land, 

With nightingales in visionary wolds. 

We murmur, "Where is any certain tune, 

Or measured music, in such notes as these?" 

But angels, leaning from the golden seat, 

Are not so minded! Their fine ear hath won 

The issue of completed cadences; 

And smiling down the stars, they whisper, "Sweet."

Discussion Questions:

Analyze this poem!  Pay attention to word choices and imagery as well as what you think the overall message/point/theme is.

"Past and Future"

Okay, time for something different.  Enough love poems for one week!  This is from her 1844 collection Poems (so it's from before she met Robert Browning).

"Past and Future"

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

My future will not copy fair my past 

On any leaf but Heaven's. Be fully done, 

Supernal Will ! I would not fain be one 

Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast 

Upon the fulness of the heart, at last 

Saith no grace after meat. My wine hath run 

Indeed out of my cup, and there is none 

To gather up the bread of my repast 

Scattered and trampled ! Yet I find some good 

In earth's green herbs, and streams that bubble up 

Clear from the darkling ground, — content until 

I sit with angels before better food. 

Dear Christ ! when thy new vintage fills my cup, 

This hand shall shake no more, nor that wine spill.

Discussion Questions:

1.  What is this poem about, do you think?

"Sonnet 38"

Here's another from Sonnets from the Portuguese.  

"Sonnet 38"

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 

The fingers of this hand wherewith I write, 

And ever since it grew more clean and white,... 

Slow to world-greetings...quick with its “Oh, list,” 

When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 

I could not wear here plainer to my sight, 

Than that first kiss. The second passed in height 

The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, 

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed! 

That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third, upon my lips, was folded down 

In perfect, purple state! since when, indeed, 

I have been proud and said, “My Love, my own.”

Discussion Questions:

1.  Does this fit your ideas of what romantic poetry is or should be?  How or how not?

2.  Why might a kiss on the hand or the forehead be particularly memorable, maybe even more memorable than a kiss on the lips?