Revised Prose Poem

 Untitled Prose Poem of an 1891 Magazine Article

Her swift rise of posthumous fame, her utterly reclusive character and then six editions within six months; a suddenness of success without parallel coupled with earnest demand by readers for further information about the artist who had sent a letter from Amherst in April 1862 to editor H. with the request, “to say if my verse is alive—the mind is so near itself it cannot see distinctly—and I have none to ask.”

In handwriting so peculiar it seemed as if the writer had taken first lessons studying fossilized bird tracks found in the museum of a college town—cultivated, quaint, and wholly unique; using little punctuation—chiefly in dashes.

In a handful of poems the impression of genius was distinct, along with the puzzle of what place it ought to be assigned—so remarkable—so elusive of critique.

In reply sought to gain time, to find out what strange creature he was dealing with, he offered some criticism—which she called Surgery—alongside questions she evaded with a skillful naivety

such the most worldly coquette might envy. In asking her age—“I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir.” Of her companions—“hills sir, and the sundown, and a dog large as myself—they are better beings because they know but do not tell—and the sounds in the pool at noon which excel my piano. I have a mother, brother and sister who do not care for thought, and my father, too busy with briefs, buys me many books, but begs me not to read—they are all religious, except me, and address an eclipse every morning, whom they call their creator.”

In reply to a letter of praise—“I have had few pleasures so deep as your opinion, and if I tried to thank you,

tears would block my tongue; I smile when you suggest that I publish—though that being foreign

to my thought as firmament to fin—for if fame belonged to me, I could not escape it—and if not,

the longest day would pass me on the chase so my barefoot rank is better.”

Asking for her picture, that he might form some impression of his enigmatical correspondent—“Could you believe me without?” she asks. “I have no portrait, but am small—like the wren—and my hair is bold,

like the chestnut bur—and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves. Much in the woods as a little girl I was told the snake would bite, that I might pick a poisonous flower, or goblins kidnap; but I went along and met no one but angels who were far shyer: so I haven’t that confidence in fraud which so many exercise.” Attempts to lead her in the direction of rules and traditions he soon abandoned in even the slightest degree her extraordinary nature.

Then in 1870 after nearly eight years of postponements he found himself at her home—a mansion large, square and brick, surrounded by trees, blossoming shrubs without—within, exquisitely neat, spacious,

cool, and fragrant with flowers. And after a moment of delay, was heard a faint and pattering footstep

in the hall, where in glided noiselessly a plain, shy little person beneath smooth bands of reddish hair,

the face without a single good feature, and eyes just as she herself had described—a quaint and nun-like look, as if she might be canoness of some obscure religious order, dressed in white pique and an electric blue net shawl—she came with two day-lilies, which she put in his hand, saying softly under her breath,

“These are my introduction,” and adding, in childlike fashion, “forgive me if I am frightened—I never see strangers, and hardly know what to say.’” But soon began to talk and continued almost constantly; pausing at times to beg he should talk instead—readily recommencing when he evaded, with not a trace of affectation, seeming to speak for her own relief, and wholly without watching its effect on her hearer.

“Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it. How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world—you must have noticed them in the street—how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?”