A little Dickinson for a Saturday
I've just started reading The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson. It contains 1775 poems, drafts and fragments written by Emily Dickinson, with information about the date the poem was written (when known), when it was first published, etc. The prefatory material makes clear that sometimes Miss Dickinson wrote multiple fair copies of her poems, with minor differences as to certain wording - and without expressing a clear preference or choice as to which version was "final." In such a case, only one version is in this book. Which means that I don't get to see the other options, which I think I'd dearly love to do - it would say a lot about her writing and editing process, I believe.
The weather has become warm again this weekend after a week's worth of temperate, autumn-like days. Acorns have been cracking themselves on the back deck. The dogwood out front is tinged with red and brown, and the green leaves are starting to fade, preparing for their transition into bursts of color before settling on almost uniform browns and taupes. Small wonder that the poem numbered 12 caught my eye and imagination as thoughts turn to fall:
The morns are meeker than they were -
The nuts are getting brown -
The berry's cheek is plumper -
The Rose is out of town.
The Maple wears a gayer scarf -
The field a scarlet gown -
Lest I should be old fashioned
I'll put a trinket on.