Before I got my eye put out

In a continuation of some of the past themes, I'd like to take a look at another Dickinson poem, "Before I got my eye put out":

Before I got my eye put out –
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes –
And know no other way –

But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me –

The Meadows – mine –
The Mountains – mine –
All Forests – Stintless stars –
As much of noon, as I could take –
Between my finite eyes –

The Motions of the Dipping Birds –
The Morning’s Amber Road –
For mine – to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead –

So safer – guess – with just my soul
Opon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes –
Incautious – of the Sun –

Let's start right into the first stanza, then.

Before she got her eye put out, the speaker "liked as well to see / As other creatures, that have eyes – / And know no other way –". At first, the construction would indicate that the speaker used to enjoy seeing, but it's immediately clear that in fact she means that she used not to properly appreciate sight. That, having lost (part of) her sight, she now finds sight to be much more than she once did. Remember the similar theme in "Success is counted sweetest". Also, notice that it is nature that she wishes to see--recall the particularly excellent "I taste a liquor never brewed".

In the following stanzas, she writes of all the things that, having two good eyes, she might see, and therefore possess. The third stanza really emphasizes this: "The Meadows – mine – / The Mountains – mine – / All Forests – Stintless stars – / As much of noon, as I could take – / Between my finite eyes –". The first two lines drive it home--they're almost harsh in their directness.

Now, knowing what sight really is worth, having had her eye put out, the speaker cannot handle all this--it is too much. In the second stanza, she says that her heart "Would split, for size of me –". She, a merely finite being, cannot hold all of the sky. If she were told that she could have all of these things, she says, "The news would strike me dead –".

The final stanza particularly bears notice--so many things are happening there. First, we have the excellent image "with just my soul / Upon the window pane / Where other creatures put their eyes". When we say that the eyes are the windows of the soul, we often mean that by looking into someone's eyes, we can see the soul. I think this gives another twist to it, that the eyes are the windows by which the soul looks out, pressed against the window panes. The metaphor is maybe a little clumsy--it's hard to put it together in such a way that eyes, sight, soul, and windows each fit some precise purpose--but it's a beautiful thing. Certainly it means that the speaker sees with her soul, now.

The final line of the poem, "Incautious – of the Sun –", recalls the earlier idea that sight is really more than can be borne by a human, by "finite eyes". Directly, the sun's brightness is of course a thing to be cautious of, but indirectly, "the Sun" stands in for all of nature's beauty. The speaker, who now sees with her soul, recognizes that all of this beauty is too much--is dangerous for her soul.

What sort of harm comes from too much beauty? The speaker, now, says that it would strike her dead to have all of nature's beauty hers for the taking. But "other creatures, that have eyes" have this always. Does it some harm to them? I would posit that it does. Others, who have all of this beauty, do not appreciate it. They take it for granted. In a way, the speaker has gone from one kind of blindness to another. But is she more hobbled now than before?