Poems For Kids by Emily Dickinson

I like to imagine a child in this poem who roams the outdoors with the family dog. Let's call him Roffy. Emily Dickinson's Within my Garden, rides a Bird is so rhythmic a child can enjoy the story as much as the "tune."

The boy or girl in this story stop suddenly when they see unexpected motion on a full-blown pink rose, what the poet calls, the Ripest Rose - . As the abrupt swish and swoosh in the rose captures the child's and the dog's attention, imagine the two casting a glance from the flower to the equally stunned expression in the other's eyes. The tiny presence of a hummingbird is witnessed by both.

Both child and pet stare, as though unsure whether the other has caught the same glimpse: "And He and I, perplex us
If positive, 'twere we -" It happened so fast. The lightly discernible presence seems borne on a wispy silken, ".. single Wheel."

This little whirligig disappears so quickly the child doubts whether anything was there at all.

Although the poem is not written from the perspective of a child, it may be for the entertainment of children. Here's the poem along with my suggestion of an experience shared by the child and pet.

Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Opon a single Wheel -
Whose spokes a dizzy music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill -

He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose -
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted -
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres -
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us
If positive, 'twere we -
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity -

But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye -
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An exquisite Reply!

As children so often do, this one is prepared to let the brief noticing go unmentioned, perhaps expecting that adults will say that it's just imagination: You bore the Garden in the Brain. The child looks back at Roffy to resume their explorations.

Roffy, however, knows what he sees, But He, the best Logician. Roffy's looking back with riveted nose and eyes, this acts as reassurance, "An exquisite Reply! for the child, when he Refers my clumsy eye - /To just vibrating Blossoms!.

I think the only thing more enticing than a whirligig to a little child might be a fairygig. To a child a hummingbird is a "Fairy Gig" who Reels in remoter atmospheres in the garden, the outdoors.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!

How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one's name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!

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Make me a picture of the sun -
So I can hang it in my room.
And make believe I'm getting warm
When others call it "Day"!

Draw me a Robin - on a stem -
So I am hearing him, I'll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune -
Put my pretense - away -

Say if it's really - warm at noon -
Whether it's Buttercups - that "skim" -
Or Butterflies - that "bloom"?
Then - skip - the frost - upon the lea -
And skip the Russet - on the tree -
Let's play those - never come!

We might like to create a conversation to help us follow the poem. You may wish to fill in the name of the child if you share this with a youngster, along with your own.

Adult: Let's find the yellowest crayon in the box.
Let's draw a big sun and color it golden.

Child: A sun This Big! Make me a picture of the sun, So I can hang it in my room.

Adult: Then, let's cut it out. Then hang it on the wall. Opposite the window. Now! we don't have to wait for the sun outside.

Child: To shine.

Adult: We can have sunshine all the time, And make believe we're getting warm when others call it "Day"!"

Child: Let's not stop with our sun. Let's do more.

Adult: Then, "Draw me a Robin - on a stem -
So I am hearing him...".

Child: "So I am hearing him,
I'll dream" of all he sings.

Adult: "And when the Orchards stop their tune - ".

Child: No! No. No. Orchards don't sing!

Adult: Ah! of course.

Shall we "Put my pretense - away -"?

Child: And "Say if it's really - warm at noon - "

Adult: Whether it's Buttercups - that 'skim' -".
You know, glide over the surface of the meadow. A little like a path. A path that ricochets off water.
Lightly and swiftly.

Child: No! No! Nooo!.

Adult: Oh! You are right, of course. It's not buttercups that skim along the surface of the garden.
It's butterflies.

Are you sure? "Or Butterflies - that 'bloom'?"

Child: No! No! Nooo!.

Adult: Okay. Of course, we know butterflies don't bloom. So, when you color the forest, let it always be green. "And - skip the Russet -on the tree - " Then, fall's reddish browns will "never come!"

Child: No! No! Robins must stop their tune.

Adult: Oh. Yes, of course, winter is very persistent. It keeps returning, again and again.
But, we can keep our sun, the one we made to hang in our room.

Child: No! It won't keep us warm. Not really.

Adult: I know. We'll read this poem. And, play winter never come.

Child: Do you think the poem will keep us warm?

Children, I wish I could show you the darkly colored butterfly with the little brown spots? Or, maybe you already saw one. The spots are proof that she is brave.

They are like the scraped knee you got the other day. When you fell, and the pavement burned a red place onto your skin, I bet it hurt. Did you say, "Ouch!" And, maybe cry and say, "I have a booby!"?

Emily Dickinson's poem that tells about little butterflies who also get boobies starts out saying, "The Butterfly's Numidian Gown". A Numidian Gown just means that the butterfly's wings are like clothes. This one in particular is visiting from a far off place - Numidia. This is an old-timey word for a country on the other side of the world. Or, if you live in Algeria, you may know your country was called Numidia in the olden days. It is in the beautiful continent of Africa.

The Butterfly's Numidian Gown
With spots of Burnish - roasted on
Is proof against the Sun -
But prone to shut its spotted Fan
And panting on a Clover lean
As if it were undone -

The next time you have to say, "Ouch!", remember to tell a grownup that, like the butterfly in the poem, your new spot was "roasted on". Maybe you'll start to laugh. Because, of course, only food is roasted, of course. And, like the butterfly whose roasted spots are part of its covering, you, too, have protection.

The butterfly "And panting on a Clover lean", found strong shoulder to lean on, depend on. Just as you are dependent on Mommy and Daddy. The butterfly's clover refreshed its boobie because it could rely on it. You can probably count on other people besides your parents. Maybe you have faith in a grandparent, or have learned to trust a brother or sister.

So, just as a butterfly never would really "shut its spotted Fan", it does sometimes close its wings. The poem calls the butterfly wings, "fans." How will you tell about it when you need lean on someone to feel better?

When something hurts. Or when you have followed grownups around more than you want. Or something else feels like a secret part of you wants to shut down, "As if it were undone - ". Maybe you feel like closing a door. But, you and the butterfly have someplace to go.

"And panting on a Clover lean".

Tell Me a Story
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When my grandson at age eight memorized the following poem, his first Emily Dickinson poem, he recited "The grass so little has to do" in a way that made me hear it as a story for the first time.

Dickinson famously played a kind of hide-and-seek with her niece and nephews and children in the neighborhood. The poet would stand in an upstairs window, lowering surprises to them in the yard in a basket of her own devising.

She also plays hide and seek with her readers sometimes. Tucking the kernel that makes a poem memorable inside images and rhythms that stand on their own to entertain.

A Bird came down the Walk -
He did not know I saw -
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass -
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass -

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around -
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought -
He stirred his Velvet Head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home -

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam -
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.

Twin Little Girls Reading a Story
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