#315
He fumbles at your SoulAs Players at the KeysBefore they drop full Music on --He stuns you by degrees --Prepares your brittle NatureFor the Ethereal BlowBy fainter Hammers -- further heard --Then nearer -- Then so slow --Your Breath has time to straighten --Your Brain -- to bubble Cool --Deals -- One -- imperial -- Thunderbolt --That scalps your naked Soul --When Winds take Forests in their Paws --The Universe -- is still --
-Emily Dickinson
It's possible thunderstorm weather for us, sticky, though now there's a breeze picking up. Fainter Hammers have indeed been further heard. So far not any nearer. It's still possible any actual rain will blow right past us.
Emily Dickinson, of course, didn't title her poems with numbers--they had no titles--and the numbers I use come from the Thomas H. Johnson edition of 1955. It's popular and it's what I have. He numbers the poems in the order he believes they were composed. Last week's poem was number #316, and he assigns them both to 1862. Assuming his dating is right, she was working out a theme at the time. And just what was the weather like in Amherst in June of 1862?
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