Some store the Sabbath going to the Church --I save it, remaining at house --With a Bobolink for a Chorister --And an Orchard, for a Dome --Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice --I simply wear my wing --And rather of tolling the Bell, because that Church,Our little Sexton -- sings.God preaches, a listed Clergyman --And the sermon is never long,So rather of getting to Heaven, at last --I"m going, every along.
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Commentary through Ivan M. Granger
Here Emily Dickinson appears to suggest that true prayer occurs at residence -- or within oneself -- rather than in the public domain of church. She celebrates a praise that is simple, essential, direct.For her, trees form the roof of she church ("an Orchard, for a Dome"). The living world near-at-hand is her ar of worship. Neighborhood songbirds form her choir.
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It is in she solitary moments and her private communions with adjacent nature the Dickinson meet the sacred.She finds within this interior world that God preaches come her straight -- "a noted Clergyman" indeed!I especially love the closing lines:So rather of acquiring to Heaven, at critical I"m going, all along.The journey to sky has come to be a component of her, it filling her whole world. It is not relegated to the future, after fatality or in ~ some end time, however a consistent unfolding in the present.
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