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October 14, 2004
The Belle of Amherst, on the Other Hand
Has ever been a favorite. Tightly repressed, and somewhat pursed-lipped, nevertheless, she whispers through the ages poems that have no age. I have no idea how she would vote, and I like it that way.
The Snake
Emily DickinsonThe Snake
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,--did you not,
His notice sudden 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.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once at morn,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.
That last stanza is a clencher, and the last line, sheer genius--in fact it inspires the very feeling it describes--a delicious chill, an ominous ringing.
Posted by Steven Riddle at October 14, 2004 7:19 AM
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Comments
Thanks for posting this, Mr. Riddle. I never would have found it on my own.
bw
Posted by: Bill White at October 14, 2004 10:23 PM
I blogged some of Dickinson's autumnal poetry the past two Sundays.
Posted by: ELC at October 15, 2004 11:40 AM