I chose to pursue English Literature when I was at university. The poet that most affected me was 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 grew 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 but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
There was something so haunting in her words for me; her quiet acceptance of death being another stage in her life, and I returned to this poem, over and over.
There is another lovely poem of hers:
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
She had such a lovely sense of how we adapt - either the darkness alters, or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight. Isn't that just how it is!?
I have groped in the darkness in this journey of mine. I can't say that the darkness altered. I'm not entirely sure that is possible. Rather, I have waited for something in the sight to adjust itself to midnight. That has happened before and it will likely happen again.
But, in the early sunlight of a new day I can't help but be reminded of a favourite, more innocent poem:
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And that are little boys made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
And that are little girls made of.
What are young men made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers, and crocodile tears,
And that are young men made of.
What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,
And that are young women made of.
And, I ask myself, why do wicked boys want to lure sweet girls over to the dark side where they surely don't want to go...?
