The Brain is Wider than the Sky

Emily Dickinson wrote this poem around 1862. She was thirty-one, living in a bedroom in Amherst, Massachusetts, where she would spend most of the rest of her life.

The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will contain With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea— For—hold them—Blue to Blue— The one the other will absorb— As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God— For—Heft them—Pound for Pound— And they will differ—if they do— As Syllable from Sound—

Each stanza asks you to perform something. Put them side by side. Hold them, Blue to Blue. Heft them, Pound for Pound. The imperative is repeated three times, with three different objects. What kind of argument is this?

Stanza one. The brain contains the sky — and, she adds, you beside it. Not just the sky but the scene: the sky and a human figure standing before it, together, held inside the mind observing them. Does that feel true when you try it? And if it does, what exactly is being contained?

Stanza two. The verb changes. In the first stanza, the brain contains. Here, it absorbs. Is that the same claim? A sponge and a bucket are not the same. Is something lost in absorption that was present in containment?

Stanza three. She does not say the brain is wider than God, or deeper. She says it is just the weight of God. And then: if they do. The first two stanzas were declarative. This one hedges. Why does the confidence give out exactly here?

And then the final image: As Syllable from Sound.

A syllable is a portion of sound that has been given form — bounded, articulated, cut from the continuous. If the brain differs from God the way a syllable differs from sound, what does that make the brain? What does it make God?