القرن التاسع عشر ، رقم ١٨٢، أبريل ١٨٩٢ [ظ‎‎١‎٠‎٧] (٢٤٤/٢١٩)

704
THE NINETEENTH
April
publicity in any form; and this indifference to recognition, I take it,
accounts for the imperfection of her verse. I cannot subscribe to
the idea that her audacious violation of rhyme, her careless obscurity
were wilful. I rather incline to the belief that, writing for herself
alone, so long as she committed the thought that burned within her
to paper, with some assonance which pleased her ear—or even, in
some cases, without it—she was satisfied. She would not have been
satisfied that these thoughts, clearly the cries wrung from a passionate,
suffering soul, should have been given to the world without further
polish. Yet we cannot regret the publication of this little volume.
The world is richer by some exquisite lines, some beautiful couplets ;
only in one or two instances by a poem which is complete and perfect.
But in all, the possession of Imagination—that rarest gift—is con
spicuous : Imagination, and a strong individuality, akin to that of no
other writer, though at moments there is something that recalls
Blake, and, at others, Emily Bronte. The following is a vivid example
of her strong conception. One can almost fancy that the writer had
before her eyes some grand allegorical design by (jr. Watts when she
sat down, and wrote at white heat:—
T he O haeiot
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 played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain:
We passed the setting sun.
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; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Those five stanzas, though I suppose they cannot be called perfect,
inasmuch as the rhymes in the second and fifth must be judged in
correct, have a quality which is rare in poetry of any period. Miss
Dickenson s gift of seeing, now as in an Apocalyptic vision, now as in
a dream of fairyland, is unique among minor minstrels, Her range.