INTRODUCTION
is supremely the poet of those who “never read poetry.” The scoffers, the literary agnostics, make exception for her. She is also the poet of the unpoetic, the unlearned foreigner, the busy, practical inexpressive man as well as woman, the wise young and groping old, the nature worshipper, the schoolgirl, children caught by her fairy lineage, and lovers of all degree.
Full many a preacher has found her line at the heart of his matter and left her verse to fly up with his conclusion. And it is the Very Reverend head of a most Catholic order who writes, “I bless God for Emily,— some of her writings have had a more profound influence on my life than anything else that any one has ever written.”
Mystic to mystic, mind to mind, spirit to spirit, dust to dust. She was at the source of things and dwelt beside the very springs of life, yet those deep wells from which she drew were of the wayside, though their waters were of eternal truth, her magnificat one of the certainties of every immortal being. Here in her poems the arisen Emily, unabashed by mortal bonds, speaks to her “Divine Majority”:
“Split the lark and you ’ll find the music —
Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled,
Scantily dealt to the Summer morning,
Saved for your ears when lutes are old.”
But in what vernacular explain the skylark to the mole—even she was at loss to tell. And for the true lovers of the prose or poetry of Emily Dickinson, explanation of her is as impertinent as unnecessary.
Martha Dickinson Bianchi.
SIENA,
- March, 1924.
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