New Poems of Emily Dickinson by William H. Shurr

Author:William H. Shurr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University of North Carolina Press
Published: 2014-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

RIDDLES

Like the fourteener, the riddle is an ancient vernacular form in which—we can confidently state from the evidence of her letters— Dickinson excelled. In many of the examples below the two forms are in fact combined. Her riddles are puzzles that need a clue. Her riddle about the hummingbird, number 1463 in her Complete Poems, is famous. Now the list can be greatly expanded.

In one riddle Dickinson offers the reader no help. The following appears in its entirety among her prose fragments in the third volume of her letters. One might venture as an answer “the body,” or possibly “the human brain”:

393. Incredible the Lodging

But limited the Guest, (PF 84)

Or “earth” would fit as well, as would “the heart.”

For the rest, clues come from the letters in which they appear.

394. Speculate with all our might,

we cannot ascertain. (332)

(immortality)

395. No event of Wind or Bird

breaks the Spell of Steel.

Nature squanders Rigor—now—

where she squandered Love. (432)

(The answer must be “winter,” since she

writes the riddle in January.)

396. She is the Lane to the Indes,

Columbus was looking for. (456)

(George Eliot)

397. We are snatching our jewels from the frost,

and ask you to help us wear them,

as also the trinkets more rotund,

which serve a baser need. (578)

(a gift of flowers and fruit)

398. Night’s capacity varies,

but Morning, is inevitable— (616)

(a bad dream)

399. This is but a fragment,

but wholes are not below. (656)

(a letter)

400. To which as to a Reservoir

the smaller Waters go. (833)

(a friend)

401. The gift of neither Heaven nor Earth,

yet coveted of both! (883)

(a friend)

402. The Organ is moaning—

the Bells are bowing,

I ask Vinnie what time it is. (888)

(Sunday)

403. The little package of Ceylon

arrived in fragrant safety. (889)

(tea)

404. How to repair my shattered ranks

is a besetting pain. (896)

(recent deaths of friends)

405. The sweet Acclamation of Death divulges it–

There is no Trumpet like the Tomb— (1043)

(“The Might of Human Love”)

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