Emily Dickinson

①I’m Nobody!我是无名之辈－Emily DickinsonI’m nobody! Who are you?我是无名之辈！你是谁？Are you nobody, too?你也是无名之辈吗？Then there’s a pair of us----don’t tell!那么我们就是一对儿了！千万不要透露出去They’d banish us, you know!不然我们都会被他们驱逐，你知道。

How dreary to be somebody!做一个某某，是多么沉闷无聊How public, like a frog众人像是青蛙To tell your name the livelong day整日地把你谈论啊To an admiring bog!对着他们倾慕的泥沼我是无名之辈艾米莉·狄金森我是无名之辈，你是谁？你，也是，无名之辈？这就凑成一双，别声张！你知道，他们会大肆张扬！做个，显要人物，好不无聊！像个青蛙，向仰慕的泥沼——在整个六月，把个人的姓名聒噪——何等招摇！This poem is Dickinson’s most famous and most defense of the kind of spiritual privacy she favored, implying that to be a Nobody is a luxury incomprehensible to a dreary somebody—for they are too busy keeping their names in circulation. But to be somebody is not as fancy as it seems to be.Emily DickinsonAs you probably noticed when you read this poem, none of the themes that I discussed in the Overview of Dickinson applies to this poem. My list was not meant to cover every topic Dickinson wrote on, nor does every poem she wrote fit neatly into a category.Dickinson adopts the persona of a child who is open, naive, and innocent. However, are the questions asked and the final statement made by this poem naive? If they are not, then the poem is ironic because of the discrepancy between the persona's understanding and view and those of Dickinson and the reader. Under the guise of the child's accepting society's values, is Dickinson really rejecting those values?Is Dickinson suggesting that the true somebody is really the "nobody"? The child-speaker welcomes the person who honestly identifies herself and who has a true identity. These qualities make that person "nobody" in society's eyes. To be "somebody" is to have status in society; society, the majority, excludes or rejects those who lack status or are "nobody"--that is, "they'd banish us" for being nobody.In stanza 2, the child-speaker rejects the role of "somebody" ("How dreary"). The frog comparison depicts "somebody" as self-important and constantly self-promoting. She also shows the false values of a society (the "admiring bog") which approves the frog-somebody. Does the word "bog" (it means wet, spongy ground) have positive or negative connotations? What qualities are associated with the sounds a frog makes (croaking)?Is there satire in this poem?Some readers, who are modest and self-effacing or who lack confidence, feel validated by this poem. Why?②To Make a Prairie…To make a prairieIt takes a clover and one bee,One clover and a bee,And revery.Revery alone will do,If bees are few.去造一个草原张祈试译去造一个草原需要一株三叶草和一只蜜蜂，一株三叶草和一只蜜蜂，还有梦。

Emily DickinsonMy favorite writer is Emily Dickinson. Like Whitman, she broke the limitations of her time. Though she left us more than 1770 poems, only several of these poems are published before she died. From her twentieth, she began to get rid of the contact with society. So we do not know much information about her, which made us feel hard to know the exact meaning of her poetry. Her style was influenced greatly by Emerson. Though she almost did not go to the outdoor, she lived a colorful spirit life. She was very important in American literature.The themes of Emily Dickinson’s poems are love, nature, doubt and faith, suffering, death and immortality. For example, she writes To Make a Prairie… and I Died for Beauty, but was Scarce.The style of her poems is terse and frequently imagistic style. That style is very modern and innovative. Dickinson explores the inside world. Her poetry is marked for her concise, direct and simple diction and syntax.Although she had normal and vivacious girlhood, her poetry illustrates the doctrine predestination and pessimism, so that her basic tone was tragic. She sees nature as both gaily benevolent and cruel. On the ethical level she emphasizes free-will and human responsibility. Like Emerson, she holds that beauty, truth and goodness are ultimately one. She says “For Beauty,” I replied—“and I--for Truth--Themselves are One— we Brethren, are,” he said-- The artistic features of her poems lie in her innovation in rhyme and her structural patterns. She used “consonance” which means similarity of final consonants. For example, in Success Is Counted Sweetest, in the second stanza, “today” and “victory” are consonance. Another rhyme she used is assonance: the final vowels correspond, but the consonants are different. Her major pattern is that of a sermon: statement or introduction of topic, elaboration and conclusion. There are three variations of this major pattern. Firstly, the poet makes her initial announcement of topic in an unfigured line. Secondly, she uses a figure for that purpose. Thirdly, she repeated her statement and its elaboration a number of times before drawing a conclusion.The characters of Emily Dickinson’s poems are as follows: first, frequent use of dashes, such as the poem I Died for Beauty, but was Scarce; second, sporadic capitalization of nouns; third, convoluted and ungrammatical phrasing; forth, off-rhymes; innovation in rhyme; fifth, compressed, broken meters; sixth, bold and unconventional and often startling metaphors, for example, “ And so, as Kinsmen met a Night— We talked between the Rooms-- Until the Moss had reached our lips— And covered up—our names--”; seventh, aphoristic wit; eighth, begin with “I”, such as “I’m nobody! Who are you”; ninth, ambiguity of meaning and syntax, this is because we do not have enough documents about Emily Dickinson; last, elliptical—she will say no more than she must, because she was influenced by the doctrine of her religion.。

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was an American lyrical poet, and an obsessively private writer -- only seven of her some 1800 poems were published during her lifetime. Dickinson withdrew from social contact at the age of 23 and devoted herself in secret into writing.Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, to a family well known for educational and political activity. Her father, an orthodox Calvinist, was a lawyer and treasurer of Amherst College, and also served in Congress. She was educated at Amherst Academy (1834-47) and Mount Holyoke Female Seminary (1847-48). Around 1850 Dickinson started to write poems, first in fairly conventional style, but after ten years of practice she began to give room for experiments. From c. 1858 she assembled many of her poems in packets of 'fascicles', which she bound herself with needle and thread.After the Civil War Dickinson restricted her contacts outside Amherst to exchange of letters, dressed only in white and saw few of the visitors who came to meet her. In fact, most of her time she spent in her room. Although she lived a secluded life, her letters reveal knowledge of the writings of John Keats, John Ruskin, and Sir Thomas Browne. Dickinson's emotional life remains mysterious, despite much speculation about a possible disappointed love affair. Two candidates have been presented: Reverend Charles Wadsworth, with whom she corresponded, and Samuel Bowles, editor of the Springfield Republican, to whom she addressed many poems.After Dickinson's death in 1886, her sister Lavinia brought out her poems. She co-edited three volumes from 1891 to 1896. Despite its editorial imperfections, the first volume became popular. In the early decades of the twentieth century, Martha Dickinson Bianchi, the poet's niece, transcribed and published more poems, and in 1945 Bolts Of Melody essentially completed the task of bringing Dickinson's poems to the public. The publication of Thomas H. Johnson's 1955 edition of Emily Dickinson's poems finally gave readers a complete and accurate text.Dickinson's works have had considerable influence on modern poetry. Her frequent use of dashes, sporadic capitalization of nouns, off-rhymes, broken metre, unconventional metaphors have contributed her reputation as one of the most innovative poets of 19th-century American literature. Later feminist critics have challenged the popular conception of the poet as a reclusive, eccentric figure, and underlined her intellectual and artistic sophistication.Some poems of Emily Dickinson seem to be transcendental, yet not quite. She appears to search for the universal truths and investigate the circumstances of the human condition: sense of life, immortality, God, faith, place of man in the universe. Emily Dickinson questions absolutes and her argumentation is multisided. The poetic technique that she uses involves making abstract concrete, which creates a striking imagery like that of a hand of the wind combing the Sky.Index of First LinesA bird came down the walkA cap of lead across the skyA charm invests a faceA clock stopped—not the mantel’sA death-blow is a life-blow to someA deed knocks first at thoughtA dew sufficed itselfA door just opened on a streetAdrift! A little boat adrift!A drop fell on the apple tree Adventure most unto itselfA face devoid of love or graceAfraid? Of whom am I afraid?After a hundred yearsAh, Teneriffe!A lady red upon the hillA light exists in springA little overflowing wordA little madness in the SpringA little over JordanA little road not made of manAll circumstances are the frameAll I may, if smallAll overgrown by cunning mossA long, long sleep, a famous sleep Alter? When the hills doAmbition cannot find himA modest lot, a fame ‘petite’Ample make this bedA murmur in the trees to noteA narrow fellow in the grassAn everywhere of silverAn altered look about the hillsAn awful tempest mashed the air Angels in the early morningA poor torn heart, a tattered heart Apparently with no surpriseA precious, mouldering pleasure ’t isA prompt, executive Bird is the Jay Arcturus is his other nameAre friends delight or pain?A route of evanescenceA sepal, petal, and a thornA shady friend for torrid daysA sickness of this world it most occasions As by the dead we love to sitAs children bid the guest good-night As far from pity as complaintAs if some little Arctic flowerAs imperceptibly as griefAshes denote that fire wasA sloop of amber slips awayA solemn thing it was, I saidA something in a summer’s dayA spider sewed at nightAt half-past three a single birdA thought went up my mind to-dayA throe upon the featuresAt last to be identified!At least to pray is left, is leftA toad can die of light!A train went through a burial gateA triumph may be of several kindsA word is deadA wounded deer leaps highestBeauty crowds me till I dieBecause I could not stop for Death Before I got my eye put outBefore the ice is in the poolsBefore you thought of spring Belshazzar had a letterBereaved of all, I went abroad Besides the autumn poets sing Blazing in gold and quenching in purple Bless God, he went as soldiersBloom upon the Mountain, stated Bring me the sunset in a cupCandor, my tepid FriendCome slowly, Eden!Could I but ride indefiniteCould mortal lip divineCrisis is sweet and, set of HeartDare you see a soul at the white heat? Dear March, come in!Death is a dialogue betweenDeath is like the insectDeath sets a thing significantDelayed till she had ceased to know Delight becomes pictorialDeparted to the judgmentDid the harebell loose her girdle Distance is not the realm of FoxDoubt me, my dim companion!Down Time’s quaint streamDrab habitation of whom?Dropped into theDrowning is not so pitifulDust is the only secretEach life converges to some centreEach that we lose takes part of usEden is that old-fashioned House Elijah’s wagon knew no thillElysium is as far as toEssential oils are wrungExcept the heaven had come so near Except the smaller size, no Lives are round Except to heaven, she is nought Exhilaration is the BreezeExperiment to meExultation is the goingFaith is a fine inventionFame is a fickle foodFar from love the Heavenly Father Farther in summer than the birdsFate slew him, but he did not drop Father, I bring thee not myselfFew get enough,—enough is oneFinite to fail, but infinite to venture Follow wise OrionForbidden fruit a flavor hasFor Death,—or ratherFor each ecstatic instantForever cherished be the tree Frequently the woods are pinkFrom all the jails the boys and girlsFrom cocoon forth a butterflyFrom use she wandered now a yearGive little anguishGiven in marriage unto theeGlee! the great storm is over!Glory is that bright tragic thing Glowing is her BonnetGod gave a loaf to every birdGod made a little gentianGod permits industrious angelsGoing to heaven!Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him Good night! which put the candle out? Great streets of silence led awayHad this one day not beenHave you got a brook in your little heart Heart not so heavy as mineHeart, we will forget him!He ate and drank the precious words Heaven is what I cannot reach!‘Heavenly Father,’ take to theeHe fumbles at your spiritHe preached upon ‘breadth’He put the belt around my lifeHer final summer was itHer Grace is all she hasHer ‘Last Poems’He touched me, so I live to knowHigh from the earth I heard a birdHis bill an auger isHis Cheek is his BiographerHis mind, of man a secret makesHope is a subtle gluttonHope is the thing with feathersHow dare the robins singHow destitute is heHow happy is the little stoneHow many times these low feet staggered How still the bells in steeples standHow the old mountains drip with sunsetI asked no other thingI bet with every Wind that blewI breathed enough to learn the trickI bring an unaccustomed wineI can’t tell you, but you feel itI can wade griefI cannot live with youI did not reach theeI died for beauty, but was scarceI dreaded that first robin soI envy seas whereon he ridesIf anybody’s friend be deadI felt a cleavage in my mindI felt a funeral in my brainIf I can stop one heart from breakingIf I could tell how glad I wasIf I may have it when it ’s deadIf I should dieIf I should n’t be aliveI fit for themI found the phrase to every thoughtIf pain for peace preparesIf recollecting were forgettingIf the foolish call them ‘flowers’If tolling bell I ask the causeIf what we could were what we would If you were coming in the fallI gained it soI gave myself to himI had a daily blissI had a guinea goldenI had been hungry all the yearsI had no cause to be awakeI had no time to hate, becauseI have a king who does not speakI have no life but thisI have not told my garden yetI heard a fly buzz when I diedI held a jewel in my fingersI hide myself within my flowerI know a place where summer strives I know some lonely houses off the road I know that he existsI like a look of agonyI like to see it lap the milesI live with him, I see his faceI lived on dread; to those who knowI ’ll tell you how the sun roseI lost a world the other dayI many times thought peace had come I ’m ceded, I ’ve stopped being theirs I meant to find her when I cameI meant to have but modest needsI measure every grief I meet Immortal is an ample wordImmured in Heaven! What a Cell!I ’m nobody! Who are you?I ’m thinking of that other mornI ’m wife;I ’ve finished thatI never hear the word ‘escape’I never lost as much but twiceI never saw a moorI never told the buried goldIn lands I never saw, they sayI noticed people disappearedIn winter, in my roomI read my sentence steadilyI reason, earth is shortIs bliss, then, such abyssI see thee better in the darkI send two SunsetsI shall know why, when time is overIs Heaven a physician?I should have been too glad, I seeI should not dare to leave my friendI showed her heights she never sawI sing to use the waitingI started early, took my dogI stepped from plank to plankIt can’t be summer,—that got through It dropped so low in my regardIt makes no difference abroadIt might be easierIt ’s all I have to bring to-dayIt sifts from leaden sievesIt ’s like the lightIt sounded as if the streets were running It ’s such a little thing to weepIt struck me every dayIt tossed and tossedIt was not death, for I stood upIt was too late for manI taste a liquor never brewedI think just how my shape will riseI think that the root of the Wind is Water I think the hemlock likes to standI took my power in my handI ’ve got an arrow hereI ’ve seen a dying eyeI watched her face to see which wayI went to heavenI went to thank herI wish I knew that woman’s nameI wonder if the sepulchreI worked for chaff, and earning wheatI years had been from homeJust lost when I was saved!Just so, Jesus raps—He does not wearyLay this laurel on the oneLet down the bars, O Death!Let me not mar that perfect dreamLife, and Death, and GiantsLightly stepped a yellow starLike brooms of steelLike Men and Women shadows walkLike mighty footlights burned the red Like some old-fashioned miracleLike trains of cars on tracks of plush Look back on time with kindly eyesLove is anterior to lifeLove reckons by itself aloneLow at my problem bendingMarch is the month of expectationMe! Come! My dazzled faceMine by the right of the white election! Mine enemy is growing oldMorning is the place for dew‘Morning’ means ‘Milking’ to the Farmer Morns like these we partedMuch madness is divinest sense Musicians wrestle everywhereMy cocoon tightens, colors teaseMy country need not change her gownMy friend must be a birdMy life closed twice before its closeMy nosegays are for captivesMy river runs to theeMy Wheel is in the darkMy worthiness is all my doubtNature is what we seeNature rarer uses yellowNature, the gentlest motherNew feet within my garden goNo Autumn’s intercepting chillNo brigadier throughout the yearNo matter where the Saints abideNo other can reduceNo rack can torture meNo romance sold untoNot any higher stands the graveNot any sunny toneNot in this world to see his faceNot knowing when the dawn will come Not one by Heaven defrauded stayNot when we knowNot with a club the heart is brokenOf tribulation these are theyOf all the souls that stand createOf all the sounds despatched abroadOf bronze and blazeOf Death the sharpest functionOf so divine a lossOf this is Day composedOne blessing had I, than the restOne day is there of the seriesOne dignity delays for allOne need not be a chamber to be haunted One of the ones that Midas touched One sister have I in our houseOn my volcano grows the grassOn such a night, or such a nightOn the bleakness of my lotOn this long storm the rainbow roseOn this wondrous seaOur journey had advancedOur lives are SwissOur share of night to bearPain has an element of blankPapa above!Perception of anPerhaps you’d like to buy a flower?Peril as a possessionPigmy seraphs gone astrayPink, small, and punctualPompless no life can pass awayPoor little heart!Portraits are to daily facesPrayer is the little implementPresentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break itRead, sweet, how others strove‘Remember me,’ implored the Thief Remembrance has a rear and frontRemorse is memory awakeReverse cannot befall that fine ProsperitySafe Despair it is that ravesSafe in their alabaster chambersShe died at playShe died,—this was the way she diedShe laid her docile crescent downShe rose to his requirement, droppedShe slept beneath a treeShe sweeps with many-colored broomsShe went as quiet as the dewSleep is supposed to beSo bashful when I spied herSo, from the mouldSoftened by Time’s consummate plushSo gay a flower bereaved the mindSome Days retired from the restSome keep the Sabbath going to churchSome rainbow coming from the fair!Some things that fly there beSome, too fragile for winter windsSo proud she was to dieSo set its sun in theeSoul, wilt thou toss again?South winds jostle themSown in dishonor?Speech is a symptom of affection Split the lark and you ’ll find the music Step lightly on this narrow spot! Success is counted sweetest Summer begins to have the look Summer for thee grant I may be Superfluous were the sun Superiority to fateSurgeons must be very carefulSweet hours have perished here Sweet is the swamp with its secretsTaken from men this morningTalk with prudence to a beggar’T is an honorable thought’T is little I could care for pearls’T is so much joy!’T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou’T is whiter than an Indian pipe That I did always loveThat is solemn we have endedThat Love is all there isThat she forgot me was the leastThat short, potential stirThat such have died enables usThe bat is dun with wrinkled wings The bee is not afraid of meThe Bible is an antique volumeThe blunder is to estimateThe body grows outsideThe bone that has no marrowThe brain is wider than the skyThe brain within its grooveThe bustle in a houseThe butterfly’s assumption-gownThe butterfly obtainsThe clouds their backs together laid The cricket sangThe daisy follows soft the sunThe day came slow, till five o’clock The Devil, had he fidelityThe difference between despairThe distance that the dead have goneThe Duties of the Wind are fewThe dying need but little, dearThe Face we choose to missThe farthest thunder that I heardThe feet of people walking homeThe Future never spokeThe gentian weaves her fringesThe gleam of an heroic actThe grass so little has to doThe grave my little cottage isThe healed Heart shows its shallow scar The heart asks pleasure firstThe Hills erect their purple headsThe incidents of LoveThe inundation of the SpringTheir height in heaven comforts notThe largest fire ever knownThe last night that she livedThe leaves, like women, interchange The long sigh of the FrogThe Look of Thee, what is it like?The luxury to apprehendThe missing All prevented meThe Moon upon her fluent routeThe moon is distant from the seaThe moon was but a chin of goldThe morns are meeker than they were The mountain sat upon the plainThe murmur of a beeThe murmuring of bees has ceasedThe mushroom is the elf of plantsThe nearest dream recedes, unrealized The night was wide, and furnished scant The one that could repeat the summer day The Ones that disappeared are backThe only ghost I ever sawThe overtakelessness of thoseThe past is such a curious creatureThe pedigree of honeyThe props assist the houseThe rat is the concisest tenantThere ’s something quieter than sleep There came a day at summer’s full There came a wind like a bugleThere is a flower that bees preferThere is a shame of noblenessThere is a solitude of spaceThere is a wordThere is another LonelinessThere is no frigate like a bookThere’s a certain slant of lightThere’s been a death in the opposite houseThe reticent volcano keepsThe right to perish might be thoughtThe robin is the oneThe rose did caper on her cheekThese are the days that Reindeer loveThese are the days when birds come backThe Sea said ‘Come’ to the BrookThe show is not the showThe skies can’t keep their secret!The sky is low, the clouds are meanThe Soul that has a GuestThe soul selects her own societyThe soul should always stand ajarThe Soul’s superior instantsThe soul unto itselfThe spider as an artistThe springtime’s pallid landscapeThe Stars are old, that stood for meThe stimulus, beyond the graveThe suburbs of a secretThe sun just touched the morningThe sun kept setting, setting stillThe sweets of Pillage can be knownThe thought beneath so slight a filmThe treason of an accentThe way I read a letter’s thisThe wind begun to rock the grassThe wind tapped like a tired manThe Winds drew offThey won’t frown always—some sweet day They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars They say that ‘time assuages’This is my letter to the worldThis is the land the sunset washesThis merit hath the worstThis quiet Dust was Gentlemen and LadiesThis was in the white of the yearThis world is not conclusionThose final Creatures,—who they are Though I get home how late, how late! Three weeks passed since I had seen her Through lane it lay, through bramble Through the straight pass of sufferingTie the strings to my life, my LordTitle divine is mineTo be alive is powerTo-day or this noonTo fight aloud is very braveTo hang our head ostensiblyTo hear an oriole singTo help our bleaker partsTo know just how he suffered would be dear To learn the transport by the painTo lose one’s faith surpassesTo lose thee, sweeter than to gainTo love thee, year by yearTo make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee To my quick ear the leaves conferredToo cold is thisTo pile like Thunder to its closeTo see her is a pictureTo tell the beauty would decreaseTo the staunch Dust we safe commit theeTo this apartment deepTo venerate the simple days’T was a long parting, but the time’T was comfort in her dying room’T was just this time last year I died’T was later when the summer went’T was such a little, little boatTwo butterflies went out at noonTwo lengths has every dayTwo swimmers wrestled on the sparUndue significance a starving man attaches Unto my books so good to turnUpon the gallows hung a wretchVictory comes lateV olcanoes be in SicilyWait till the majesty of DeathWater is taught by thirstWe cover thee, sweet faceWe learn in the retreatingWe like March, his shoes are purpleWe never know how high we areWe never know we go,—when we are going Went up a year this evening!We outgrow love like other thingsWe play at pasteWe should not mind so small a flowerWe spy the Forests and the HillsWe thirst at first,—’t is Nature’s actWhat if I say I shall not wait?What inn is thisWhat mystery pervades a well!What soft, cherubic creaturesWhen Etna basks and purrsWhen I hoped I fearedWhen I was small, a woman diedWhen night is almost doneWhen roses cease to bloom, dearWhere every bird is bold to goWhere ships of purple gently toss Whether my bark went down at seaWhile I was fearing it, it cameWho has not found the heaven belowWho is it seeks my pillow nights?Who never wanted,—maddest joyWho never lost, are unpreparedWho robbed the woods‘Whose are the little beds,’ I askedWho were ‘the Father and the Son’Wild nights! Wild nights!Will there really be a morning? Witchcraft has not a pedigreeWithin my reach!You cannot put a fire outYou left me, sweet, two legaciesYour riches taught me povertyYou ’ve seen balloons set, haven’t you?Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed.To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag todayCan tell the definition,So clear, of victoryAs he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBreak agonized and clear!Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.We slowly drove, he knew no haste,And I had put awayMy labour, and my leisure too,For his civility.We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done;We passed the fields of gazing grain,We passed the setting sun.We paused before a house that seemedA swelling of the ground;The roof was scarcely visible,The cornice but a mound.Since then 'tis centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the dayI first surmised the horses' headsWere toward eternity.Anne Bradstreet (ca. 1612-1672)To my Dear and Loving HusbandIf ever two were one, then surely we.If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee.If ever wife was happy in a man,Compare with me, ye women, if you can.I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold Or all the riches that the East doth hold.My love is such that Rivers cannot quench,Nor ought but love from thee give recompetence. Thy love is such I can no way repay.The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.Then while we live, in love let's so persever That when we live no more, we may live ever.。

Emily Dickinson艾米莉·狄金森(1830 - 1886)1.The usual beginning : her life1) Born to religious, well-to-do New England family•Well-behaved, well-educated, obedient•Expected to become a graceful woman, marry well, and settle into a life of church service2) Heartbreak :•Heartbreak At 24, travels with her father to Washington D.C. Escaping her love of an older lawyer, who was married, and would die of tuberculosis that same year•On the journey, falls in love with Charles Wadsworth, a married pastor of a church in Philadelphia In 1862, Wadsworth leaves for San Francisco, and Emily falls into despair3) The Nun of Amherst : 阿默斯特的女尼•Emily withdraws from social life – except for immediate family gatherings•Dresses all in white – like the wedding gown she would never wear •Communicates mostly through notes4) A Published Poet :•During her period of recluse, Emily send a few poems to be published.•Her poetry was never widely admired during her lifetime•and she assumed her audience would only be her family and few close friends. •Dickinson asked that upon her death, all of her poems be destroyed.5) After her death :•She wrote altogether 1775 poems, of which only seven appeared in print in her lifetime. •These were eventually published and Dickinson has become one of the most widely known of the American poets.2. Themes in her poetry1). The largest poetry concerns death and immortality.For Dickinson, death leads to immortality.•E. g: ―Because I could not Stop for Death‖因为我不能为死神止步Because I could Not Stop For Death因为我不能为死神止步•Beause I could not stop for Death—因为我不能为死神止步•He kindly stopped for me—他却慈祥地为我驻足.•The Carriage held but just Ourselves—那辆马车只能容下我们两个•And Immortality.还有不朽.•We slowly drove— He knew no haste,我们徐徐而行—他不慌不忙. •And I had put away•My labor and my leisure too我也把我的劳与闲统统丢掉一边，•For His Civility —为了他的礼让—•We passed the School where Children strove 我们路过学校,孩子们你推我搡，•At Recess —in the Ring —在休息时间，在圆形广场•We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—我们走过在田间凝眸的麦田—. •We passed the Setting Sun—我们路过夕阳-•Or rather— He passed Us—或毋宁说，他走过我们身旁•The Dews drew quivering and chill—寒露降，身子冻得打颤•For only Gossamer, my Gown—因为我只披着薄纱长袍—•my Tippet —only Tulle—我的披肩如丝网•We paused before a House that seemed 我们停步在一所房子前•A swelling of the Ground—那是隆起的土地一片—•The Roof was scarcely visible—屋顶几乎看不见—•The Cornice —in the Ground—屋檐—在地里—•Since then — `tis Centuries— and yet离那时—已是几个世纪—然而•Feels shorter than the Day感觉却比一天还短•I first surmised the Horses' Heads•我开始猜想着马车•Were toward Eternity—•正驶向永恒—该诗的核心意象是通向永恒的生命旅程.Journey of life：•the School--childhood•the Field --adult/maturity•the Setting Sun - old age•the grave - end of life’s journey-death--EternityDetailed analysis of the poem•The first line hints that death is not the final stopping place or terminus of existence.•i had...too:figuratively I put behind me the labour and toil of worldly existence. Literally, as a courteous passenger she puts aside her work, possibly her knitting ("labour") and gives all her attention to the coach driver (Death).•where...ring: they pass children at playtime ("recess") actively engaged in playing a game (symbolic of the world, and/or of meaningless worldly striving).•fileds of gazing grain: cornfields,perhaps suggestive of harvest, or the cycle of the seasons, the natural world she is leaving behind. ("Gazing" is nicely alliterative but difficult to explain to expain-may mean simply something gazed at through the carriage window).•The dews: in the English culture, drew is traditionally associated with transience and also, because of a dew-drop's pearl like shape, with the soul.•My tippet only tulle:my fur was only soft fine silk (I wore little to protect me from the cold). •We...ground: a grave or tomb. ("paused"implies that burial in a grave signfied no more than a temporary restinplace before the soul attends to heaven).•Since then 'tis centuries:time is meaningless in terms of eternity,and therefore it seems no time at all since she first suspected("surmised")that the horse drawing Death's carriage were heading for Eternity. •"Surmised"is a beautifully apt word in this context because it tactfully suggeste something less than a certitude, but someting more than guess or conjecture-the sound of the word with its long drawn out second syllable counts for a good deal here(possibly about Cortez the explorer first viewing the continent of South America:"...and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise..."). •Other poems dealing with death:•My life closed twice before its close在我生命结束之前已经结束过两次•I heard a fly buzz—when I died我死时听到了苍蝇的嗡嗡声She began to conceive of the process of dying.2). She regards nature as both kind and cruel•Extol the magnificence of sunrise in ―I’ll tell you how sun rise‖我将告诉你太阳如何升起,•In the meantime, reveal the cold indifference of nature.•In ―Apparently with no surprise‖显然地并无伴随惊讶, Frost kills a happy flower without being punished while both the sun and God look on.3). On the ethical level she emphasizes free-will and human responsibility.•In ―To fight aloud‖•The individual’s highest duty is to resist anything that will do harm to man’s self-respect and spiritual heritage.4). Like Emerson, she holds that beauty, truth and goodness are ultimately one.•In ―I died for beauty‖(我为美而死), discusses beauty and truth, concludes that the two are one.I Died for Beauty— But was scarce•I died for Beauty — but was scarce我为美而死—但还不怎么•Adjusted in the Tomb适应坟墓里的生活，•When One who died for Truth , was lain这时一位为真理而死的人被安放在•In an adjoining Room —隔壁墓室里—•He questioned softly"Why I failed?―他柔声问：―我为什么而亡？‖•"For Beauty ",I replied —―为了美‖，我回答说—•"And I — for Truth — Themself are One —―我—为了真理—美和真是一样的—•We Bretheren, are", He said —我们两是兄弟‖，他说•And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night —就这样，像亲人在夜里相遇。

A Report about Emily DickinsonEmily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, on December 10; 1830.Her father was a prominent lawyer and politician. There were four children in her family, and Emily was second daughter of the family. T hroughout Emily's life, her mother was not "emotionally accessible," the absence of which might have caused some of Emily's eccentricity. Being rooted in the puritanical Massachusetts of the 1800's, the Dickinson children were raised in the Christian tradition, and they were expected to take up their father's religious beliefs and values without argument. Under the influence of his father, so Emily Dickinson was never married. However, she cultivated intense intellectual companionship with several men in succession. These include Benjamin F, the Reverend Charles Wadsworth of Philadelphia and Thomas W. Higginson.Being the daughter of a prominent politician, Emily had the benefit of a good education and attended the Amherst Academy. Dickinson was educated at Amherst Academy (1834-47), where she had a good scientific education, and Mount Holyoke Female Seminary (1847-48).Her famous work is Poems by Emily Dickinson in 1890.But when she was alive, only a few poems were published, such as I am nobody,I died for Beauty but was Scarce and Because I Could Not Stop for Death these ones are the most famous ones. . Today, Emily is regarded as one of American‘s great lyric poets. Her writing style is short, fresh and original,marked by the vigor of her images, the daring of her thought and the beauty of expression. She was able to focus on her own world..Emily was original and innovative in her poetry, most often drawing on the Bible, classical mythology, and Shakespeare for allusions and references.She died in 1886; four years later her works became available to general reading public. Until then, she was really famous in America and became one of the most famous poets.。

艾米丽迪金森艾米丽迪金森（Emily Dickinson，1830年12月10日- 1886年5月15日）是一位美国著名的诗人，被誉为美国文学史上最重要的女性诗人之一。

她的作品以其独特的风格和思想深度而闻名，被广泛认为是美国现代诗歌的奠基人之一。

艾米丽迪金森出生在马萨诸塞州的阿默斯特市，是一个富裕家庭的长女。

她的父亲爱德华迪金森是一位成功的律师和政治家，她的母亲艾米莉诺诺里斯迪金森是一位贵族出身，有一定的文化修养。

艾米丽在一个充满爱与关怀的家庭环境中长大，她的父母鼓励她追求知识和表达自己的想法。

这对她后来的创作产生了深远的影响。

然而，尽管艾米丽的家庭环境对她的创作有利，她却很少外出社交，几乎没有接触外界的文化和知识。

她从小就倾向于独处和沉思，大部分时间都呆在家里阅读和写作。

这种独特的生活方式塑造了她独特的创作风格和思想深度。

她的诗歌主题包括生命、死亡、爱情、自然和宗教等，超越了传统的文学和社会框架，表达了她对生命和宇宙的深刻思考和个人经历的独特见解。

艾米丽的诗歌经常使用简短的句子和奇特的押韵和节奏，她将复杂的思想和情感用简单而直接的方式表达出来。

她的诗歌语言简洁明了，但却蕴含着丰富的意象和象征。

她以她的独特的方式描绘了美国农村的自然景观，通过观察和思考自然界，她表达了她对宇宙和人类存在的认识和思考。

她的诗歌中也经常出现对死亡的思考，她将死亡视为一种反映和源泉，而不是终点。

这种对生命和死亡的探索使她的诗歌充满了哲学和宗教的意味。

虽然艾米丽的诗歌在她生前几乎没有得到公开发表，但她在家人和朋友之间广泛传播，受到高度赞赏。

直到她去世后，她的诗集被发现并出版，才开始被认为是一个杰出的诗人。

她的作品引起了广泛的关注和赞赏，被誉为美国文学史上的经典之作。

艾米丽迪金森对现代诗歌的影响是深远的。

她以独特的创作风格和思想深度打破了传统的文学和社会框架，开创了一种新的诗歌表达方式。

她的诗歌不仅带给人们审美的愉悦，更引发了对生命、死亡、爱情和宇宙的深入思考。