Sunday, April 08, 2007

He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By 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.

Emily Dickinson! Don't call her an old, disillusioned hag! She pwnz man! This one's called He Fumbles At Your Spirit, and only, I suspect, because she neglected to name it like she did her many other poems. But that is just a suspicion! I wonder if people study Dickinson. They'd be Dickinsonian scholars then, wouldn't they! So, I don't claim to be no Dickinsonian scholar. I don't know. It's funny though, because I wonder if Dickinson ever knew love if she could write about it.
Burns did, you know, in his famous Red, Red Rose metaphor.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!


He's nice to read I suppose, but the Scottish gets in the way and I don't understand a lot!
The best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.
Then I fear also that I've made some kind of fatal error.

- not so heavy.
by @ 9:38 PM