The Saddest Noise, The Sweetest Noise
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, The maddest noise that grows, — The birds, they make it in the spring, At night’s delicious close, Between the March and April line — That magical frontier Beyond which summer hesitates, Almost too heavenly near. It makes us think of all the dead That sauntered with us here, By separation’s sorcery Made cruelly more dear. It makes us think of what we had, And what we now deplore. We almost wish those siren throats Would go and sing no more. An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear. We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.
The Poems of Emily Dickinson (2005, Belknap Press)
The poem feels like someone standing in early spring and suddenly realising how much beauty can hurt.
There’s something so true in the way birdsong can bring back people we’ve lost, almost before we know what’s happening.
That moment between March and April really does feel like a thin place, where memory slips in too easily.
The lines about the dead walking with us hit hard it’s exactly how grief works, quietly, unexpectedly.
It’s strange how absence can make someone feel even closer, almost painfully so.
The wish for the birds to stop singing isn’t dramatic; it’s just the kind of thought you have when your heart is tired.
And those last lines the idea that a sound can break you feel almost frightening in how accurate they are.
Dickinson seems to understand how close the heart sits to everything it hears.
The whole poem carries that mix of sweetness and ache that comes with remembering what you can’t get back.
It leaves you with a soft, lingering sadness, the kind that stays with you long after you’ve finished reading.
Great choice, Dickinson is always a classic read.