The Riddle Still Lies: Decoding Emily Dickinson’s "The Secret"
Emily Dickinson is the undisputed master of concise verse, and her poem “The Secret” (XIV in Poems, Series 1) is a perfect example of her compressed, riddle-like genius. Dickinson, who rarely left her homestead, often pondered the grand mysteries of life, death, and eternity within the intimate scope of her garden and parlor. This poem tackles the nature of existence by sorting the world into things that fly and things that stay, culminating in a question about the final, unknowable riddle. Its economy of language and intense focus make it essential for The Concise Verse.
The Poem
Some things that fly there be, —
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be, —
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!
The Insi
The central "insight" is Dickinson's taxonomy of existence. She is categorizing the entire universe into just two groups: things that are transient (things that "fly") and things that are permanent (things that "stay"). However, she rejects the utility of both categories. The flying things (birds, time, insects) are too momentary to warrant an "elegy" (a song of mourning). The staying things (grief, hills, eternity) are too vast and abstract to "behoove" (concern or benefit) the poet in her daily life. The real mystery, the "secret," lies in the final, paradoxical stanza.
Dickinson employs her signature style, including the use of the dash as a powerful tool for pause, emphasis, and ambiguity. The structure is deceptively simple: three tercets (three-line stanzas) built on a tight rhythmic and rhyming pattern. The rhythm is strongly evocative of hymn meter (a common pattern in her work), but the language is anything but straightforward. The final stanza introduces a beautiful paradox: "There are, that resting, rise." This suggests something stationary that suddenly ascends—perhaps the soul, faith, or inspiration.
The poem concludes with an unanswered, rhetorical question: "Can I expound the skies? / How still the riddle lies!" The skies represent the ultimate mystery, the unknowable truth of the universe, suggesting that the poet cannot logically "expound" (explain) it. The riddle of life and death is "still" in two senses: resting (unmoving, unsolved) and quiet (unspoken, secret). Dickinson suggests that the value is not in solving the riddle but in acknowledging its existence and the quiet awe it inspires, demonstrating her lifelong preference for poetic suggestion over scientific explanation.
