Just as with humans, we see nature as being perilous yet beautiful, and wonder how the same thing can be both. Such duality is captured throughout the enigmatic and introspective verses of Emily Dickinson’s poems, in which nature is often a medium for the contemplations of life, death, love, isolation, and faith. The poems, “A Bird, came down the Walk”, “A narrow Fellow in the grass”, and “An awful Tempest mashed the air”, richly explore the relationship between man and nature, in which conflict- both external and internal- becomes increasingly prominent.

While Joanne Diehl argues that “nature is actively threatening”, our immediate impression is often the opposite. The most obvious example is the opening line/title, in which the very fact that a snake is referred to as a “narrow Fellow in the Grass”, not only creates a sense of cordiality contradicting the stereotypical hostility of a snake through the diction in “Fellow”, but omits the mention of ‘snake’ altogether. Instead, the inherently wild animal is reduced to its physical qualities- simply a “narrow Fellow” who “occasionally rides” along the grass blades. By capitalising “Fellow” like a proper noun, and personifying the snake in such a manner, Dickinson paints an image of anything but harm. In fact, the snake is almost like a gentleman on a horseback- peaceful and autonomous, coming out whenever he chooses. The same title of “fellow” addresses the Angle worm from “A Bird, came down the Walk” where it is actually too harmless, so much so that it was eaten “raw” by the bird, a rather grotesque image emphasising nature’s vulnerability on one hand, and its innately unsympathetic food chain on the other- the nature of nature.

This idea of being eaten “raw” is interesting, however, in the sense that it is an almost anthropomorphic perception of what is a perfectly normal occurrence in reality- indeed it would be more bizarre for a bird to cook its meal. By projecting their human values upon the natural world, the speaker may be reflecting their sense of “cordiality” with nature, a testament to the claim that they know “Several of Nature’s People”, once again personifying nature by overtly referring to it as “People”. Whether or not such cordiality is reciprocated, however, is debatable, for Glennis Byron argues that “the human and natural worlds for Dickinson are totally separate”, and perhaps this is the more plausible argument, for the same bird who devoured a worm brutally is fearful himself as he “glanced with rapid eyes” that “looked like frightened beads”. The choice of diction in “beads” is a little uncanny, for it would normally be associated with some inanimate object- the glass beads on a bracelet, the eye of doll or more disturbingly, a taxidermy bird, all of which are made delicate by the beauty that gives them value.

Such vulnerability and potential objectification may just be a human perception, however, for the speaker adds “I thought” on top of their previous observations. In reality, they are themselves “like one in danger, cautious” as they “offered [the bird] a crumb”, almost like a peace offering. Such a gesture only serves to repel the bird, however, as he “unrolled his feathers” and “rowed him softer Home/ Than Oars divide the Ocean”, a majestic image that contrasts his previous anxiety as well as the speaker’s caution. Even in his vigilance, the bird does not cease to be graceful, gliding with fluidity as through flowing water- a soothing depiction harmonised with the mellow assonance in “unrolled”, “rowed”, “home” and “ocean”. Ultimately, the bird, now in flight, is “Home”, and the sky with its boundless horizons, rather than the proximity of human dwellings, is his shelter. In spite of the speaker’s claim that nature does “know” them, simply knowing someone is vastly different from being on amicable terms, and it is arguably the speaker’s own ignorance that has obscured the specious nature of their relationship.

Such tension between nature and humans is culminated in “An awful Tempest mashed the air”, where C.R Anderson furthers Joanne Diehl’s argument in commenting that “nature is not just personified, but on the warpath”. Whilst nature was still neighbourly in “A Bird, came down the Walk” as the bird hopped aside to “let a beetle pass”, now “creatures chuckled on the roofs”, heavily contrasting the chivalry of before. It is worth noting, however, that affability was shown to a “beetle” rather than a human, and it was upon man made “roofs” that creatures chuckled, thus underscoring the fact that with humans, neither rapport nor pleasantries are necessary. Such sentiment is accentuated in the third stanza, inundated with powerful verbs- “whistled”, “shook”, “gnashed”, “swung”- all of which encompass the “monster” who seems to be enjoying the havoc he wreaks, rejoicing even, as he “chuckled” sadistically in all his malevolence. Furthermore, the repetition of “And”, at once anaphoric and polysyndetic, buttresses the image of nature’s dominance with no signs of faltering. Yet such an orderly manner of description is perhaps not fitting for nature’s unregulated paroxysms. As we reflect upon the fact that this stanza is the only cinquain among the other quatrains, consequently breaking the ABCB rhyme scheme, as well as how “and shook their fists” deserts the conventionally Dickensonian common meter with its iambic dimeter, we realise that man’s power over nature is just as superficial as the aforementioned anaphora, for the poem fails to restrict nature’s description to its rhyme scheme in spite of it, reflecting how nature is ultimately a force that cannot be subjugated to human will.

While this tyranny indubitably illustrates the tempestuous propensity of nature and its animosity towards mankind, as with most of Dickinson’s poetry, which are characteristically subversive of the Victorian female stereotype, it likely conceals a deeper message. Albert J. Gelpi speculates that “death runs below the surface of everything she wrote”, and employing a psycho-analytical lens indeed reinforces the veracity of such an observation, for death was an omnipresent yet nonetheless enigmatic phenomenon that haunted Dickinson’s life through the loss of her loved ones. As if to establish this, the poem itself began with semantics of death- the clouds, “gaunt, and few”, delineating illness and emaciation, quintessential of narcoleptic nights and fasted despair and the “spectre’s cloak”, emblematic of death itself. It is apt, therefore, to view the storm as a metaphor for mental anguish, for “Heaven and Earth” were hidden from view by the “spectre’s cloak”, plunging us into darkness- reminiscent of how, in the depths of suffering, all hope seems unfathomably distant. Amidst the gloom, we are tortured by the vehement troubles that strike us prostrated in the same way the “tempest mashed the air”. Such an interpretation certainly explains the tension encapsulated in “A Bird- came down the Walk” and “A narrow Fellow in the Grass”, especially since the snake bore deceiving resemblance to a “Whip lash”-a symbol of slavery. Thus, the fact that it “wrinkled and was gone” as the speaker “[stooped] to secure it” is a parallel to how we fall short of mastering our emotions and are enslaved to them instead. Therefore, the “monster” characterised in “An awful Tempest mashed the air” is perhaps less of an embodiment of nature than a manifestation of our own misery, for no conflict is more insidious than that within our minds, no violence more poignant that that which is self-inflicted- simply a microcosm of nature’s howling winds.

In this light, the final stanza becomes increasingly pertinent, for the storm, and thus the speaker’s mental anguish subsides at last. Faintly echoing Nietzche’s Apollonian Dionysian dichotomy, “the morning lit” and the “birds arose”, whereas the heretofore obstreperous “monster” now turns back to “his native coast” with “faded eyes”. In spite of this new tranquillity, however, the monster’s eyes are merely “faded”, insinuating that, without warning, he may return as he pleases, eyes ablaze with exacerbating malice. Yet the speaker seems unfazed by such a prospect, for rather than expressing fears for this unforeseeable return, they choose instead to savour the present, exclaiming that “peace – was Paradise!” The caesura here is redolent of a relieved breath, and the alliteration of the plosive “p” a burst of bright sound emphasising the speaker’s optimism. This is an attempt, not entirely in vain, to lighten the poem’s triste tones, for in spite of their excruciating experience, the speaker can now fully appreciate the joy that comes with being relieved of pain and indeed, conflict.

Whilst the speaker in “A Bird, came down the Walk” seeks to ameliorate their apparent affinity with nature, “A narrow Fellow in the Grass” denudes the tension in such a seemingly cordial relationship, foreshadowing the cathartic storm that follows in “An awful Tempest mashed the air”- an evolutionary portrayal of nature’s undulations that is really a reflection of our own mental torment. Despair plagues our minds as storms dominate the seasons, yet through all this Dickinson implores us to cling to the hope of morning’s rays, for even if we are suffocated by darkness, it cannot, and will not always be night.