Oak Tree on Lake Waban: An Analysis of Dickinson Through Natural Observations

By Maggie Erwin ‘23

The Angle of a Landscape (578)

Emily Dickinson

The Angle of a Landscape –
That every time I wake –
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Opon an ample Crack –

Like a Venetian – waiting –
Accosts my open eye –
Is just a Bough of Apples –
Held slanting, in the Sky –

The Pattern of a Chimney –
The Forehead of a Hill –
Sometimes – a Vane’s Forefinger –
But that’s – Occasional –

The Seasons – shift – my Picture –
Opon my Emerald Bough,
I wake – to find no – Emeralds –
Then – Diamonds – which the Snow

From Polar Caskets – fetched me –
The Chimney – and the Hill –
And just the Steeple’s finger –
These – never stir at all –

From Emily Dickinson Museum

I have been measuring the surrounding ecosystem of a small oak tree near the lake: the mushrooms that pop up (evidence of the rich underground network of mycelium and roots communicating with one another), the bees that frequent the flowers, the grasses, and the changing leaves. I have even captured a picture of a squirrel collecting acorns, perched on one of the tree's thicker branches. Each day, for ten days, I have taken a single leaf and observed the coloring, shape, and size. I have taken the same observations of a single mushroom that fruited about a foot away from the tree’s mighty base. Being able to see, smell, and feel these elements of nature has enhanced my wonder, and I am certain Emily Dickinson felt the same, if not greater (perhaps, as I suspect she had a larger capacity for wonder than most of us) astonishment from her perch at the second-story bedroom window of the Dickinson home. Dickinson’s poem “The Angle of a Landscape” is similar to the leaves I have collected in that it feels like a personal, unassuming gift of which I am the lucky recipient. Her observations evoke intimacy in a way that feels as if you are standing in her doorway, watching her watch the world. The poem is filled with quiet gasps I cannot hear but know exist because that is how I feel when I observe minute changes of the natural landscape before me. The natural world is immensely powerful, dynamic, and alive, but it is also simple and without pretense. Dickinson captures both the observable riches and startling surprises of nature in “The Angle of a Landscape,” revealing that we are both human outsiders to and living elements of a vast ecosystem.

Perhaps what makes Dickinson’s poetry so impactful for me is that she often feels like a friend with whom you revel about the small things. As I visited the oak tree each day and thought about “The Angle of a Landscape,” I felt like I was chasing buried treasure. When forced to stop and focus on the smallest details of a tree, I noticed how rich the ecosystem was. The changing leaves dangling like precious jewels, a value often unseen until you focus on the internal differences. For Dickinson, the riches of nature are the simple yet breathtaking elements that continue to surprise us daily. She refers to her slightly ajar window as “Opon an ample Crack -” (4), an “ample” or plentiful scene to be appreciated. The landscape is “a Venetian” (5) that violently moves Dickinson through its abundance and beauty. She exchanges more plain descriptors for the likening of gemstones to depict the changing meadow below: “Opon my Emerald Bough, / I wake - to find no - Emeralds - / Then - Diamonds…” (14–16). She views the green grasses as emeralds, the snow as diamonds. Her dashes mimic her surprise as the seasons change, and the syntax of these lines makes me feel as though I can hear Dickinson inhaling softly in delightful astonishment. The wealth of nature makes one feel rich in a way that the transactional wealth of human society cannot. Nature expects nothing from its inhabitants and cares not how we perceive it. To the oak tree I had been studying, my presence was as insignificant as the bee on its bark. Seasonal changes continue to take place despite our bewilderment. Dickinson is of course aware of this but also knows that being an observer of nature’s tricks makes them no less startling. In many ways, nature feels like a gift, but nothing is given. The landscape is capable of instantaneous change and variability. “Sometimes - a Vane’s Forefinger - / But that’s - Occasional -” (11–12) Dickinson writes, capturing the irregular movement of the wind blowing through a weather vane. At the base of the oak tree, one of the orange mushrooms I had been documenting seemed to decompose and wither away within a day. Dickinson’s soft surprise in the lines “Opon my Emerald Bough, / I wake - to find no - Emeralds - / Then - Diamonds…” (14–16) illustrates how quickly the natural world can transform before us. The pacing of these lines and placement of the dashes conveys this temporality. Yet the opening line of the stanza “The Seasons - shift - my Picture” (13) suggests something more predictable in its variation, as the dashes rest on either side of the word “shift” and one can imagine Dickinson methodically changing frames. My visits to the oak tree were characterized by this dichotomy of gradual and immediate change often found in the wilderness. While orange color creeped into the leaves unhurried, the plump fungi surrounding the tree seemed to implode before my eyes.

An inherent quality to Dickinson’s landscape, and in my own observations of the natural world around me, is that the pieces of nature we grasp in our sight—a yellow leaf, a small purple mushroom, the spider I watch dance along her web as I write—are so simple, yet move us so greatly. Dickinson writes,

Like a Venetian - waiting -

Accosts my open eye -

Is just a Bough of Apples -

Held slanting, in the Sky - (5–8).

She applies grand nouns (“Venetian”) and intense verbs (“Accosts”) to the scene, making it feel like a violent encounter as her captor waits in plain view. But she is captive only of “a Bough of Apples -” that hangs in sight. There is also an element of surprise to this stanza. The first two lines contain a build up: “waiting” and “Accosts” make the reader feel anticipation, if not anxiety. Then, there is the release of a held breath as Dickinson notes that the “Venetian” is “just” an apple tree. “Just” implies something insignificant, yet the movement of the stanza depicts how impactful the moment truly was. This is contrasted with elements of the human world, which Dickinson notes: “The Chimney - and the Hill - / And just the Steeple’s finger - / These never stir at all -” (18–20). Man-made components of the landscape are static and immovable. They are less thrilling as they “never stir at all,” but they illuminate the dynamic natural world around them. In the curated landscape of Wellesley, and undoubtedly in the affluent realm of Amherst inhabited by Dickinson, the wildness of nature imposes human obstinance. Our buildings, though beautiful, stand unmoving amongst the ecosystem around us—concrete stifling roots. I wonder what the underground world looks like in the space between where the oak tree lives and my first floor room in Claflin Hall. Tubers enmeshed in pipes? Do the roots of my oak tree reach the place where I am rooted? The potency of nature takes us by surprise from within our own edifice.

Despite our insignificance in the natural world, we feel remarkably intimate with nature, as though the pieces of the landscape we observe are pieces of us, small secrets kept between window panes. Dickinson uses the possessive “my” throughout the poem: “my Picture” and “my Emerald Bough” (13–14). Of course, the meadow beneath her window legally belongs to the Dickinson family, but Dickinson is well aware that nature transcends these boundaries. Therefore, her use of the word “my” implies something more personal, like her poems, referred to as “My splendors” (14) in “Of Bronze - and Blaze”. As I observed the oak tree by Green Beach, I found myself referring to it as “my tree”: “I have to stop by my tree today,” or “My tree is changing colors.” Dickinson suggests that we can be intimate with nature in a way that we cannot be intimate with others, or ourselves. Even as observers, we engage in the relationships that drive the natural world. My oak tree certainly did not care to whom the hands touching its leaves belonged. However, perhaps the tree could somehow sense the crunching of leaves underfoot and the snapping of stems. After all, who am I to gatekeep sentience? Our own impacts may be felt on the seemingly unchanged world beyond our bodies. Molecules among molecules. Nature remains a force to which we are comparably insignificant, yet I hope that perhaps, in small breaths, we can exist as a humble piece of the ecosystem.

Maggie Erwin ‘23 (me3) is a junior majoring in English and Geosciences and has spent way too much time looking at mushrooms instead of completing her assignments. From the February 2022 issue. Featured image courtesy of Wellesley College.