A Class Project
Poems by Emily Dickinson
"Forever cherished be the tree"
"I'm ceded - I've stopped being Theirs -"
"Title divine, is mine"
"I am the poet of the body," from Leaves of Grass
"The disdain ans calmness of martyrs,"
"The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses"
"This Moment Yearning and Thoughtful"
"To A Stranger" from "Calamus"
"Trickle Drops"
"Crisis is sweet and yet the Heart"
http://www.emilydickinson.org/working/zh244a.htm (also
see H 244b, the second page).
In this brief paper I will discuss editorial treatments of the
abundant variants in a complex manuscript from the 1870s, "Crisis is sweet
and yet the Heart," revealing their strategies for ordering or controlling
the poetry.
I will concentrate on the structure of Franklin's presentation of
the manuscript in the Variorum (1365) and identify its mechanisms for
organizing Dickinson's scene of writing. Franklin chooses variants just
like Johnson (in the Complete Poems) and other editors. Yet whereas
Johnson usually chooses a variant Dickinson underlined (taking that to be
her final intention), Franklin chooses the phrasings he assumes came first
to Dickinson's mind (he argues that all the variants were added after
Dickinson drafted the poem). Like Johnson, Franklin alters lineation and
breaks Dickinson's writing into two quatrains, even though stanzas are not
clear in the manuscript and other editors (such as Todd and Smith and
Hart) do not create them.
Franklin's presentation of the poem correlates with the other parts
of his editorial entry: his narration of Dickinson's composition process
and apparatus of the variants. Franklin calls Dickinson's document a
"working draft," claiming "ED first worked all the way through the poem, then
went back over the whole, suggesting additional possibilities and
underscoring a few readings." This account assumes a knowledge of the
exact order of composition, breaking the writing into distinct phases of
composition and revision (without giving reasons). Dickinson's manuscript
does not preclude the possibility that the variants were composed en route
(and possibly meant to be considered during each read-through); this seems
especially true when the variants are entered horizontally with dashes, as
part of the line, or when they occupy their own line, as in: "And she
will point [undoubtedly]/tell you sighing -- answer." Also, Franklin's
phrasing in the headnote -- worked all the way through the poem, went
back over the whole (italics mine) -- suggests that he conceives poems as
objects which have definable limits and should be seen
totalistically. Another major part of Franklin's editorial presentation is
the apparatus of the variants, where the larger structure of the section
again serves as a subtle ordering device. The separation of the variants
from the (constructed) poem reinforces Franklin's narrative that it was
composed and then revised, and that there is a discernible poem (of neat
stanzas and lines and preferred variants) within this manuscript. Also,
Franklin sectionally divides the variants according to the stanzas he has
created.
This structuring fossilizes conventional ideas about the units of
poems (lines, stanzas, final word choices), precludes alternate reading
possibilities, and betrays the appearance of Dickinson's
manuscript. Editors such as Smith and Hart stay truer to the original
document, transcribing the variants in order and identifying upside down
or sideways writing. Nevertheless, the typography and description of a
book seems inadequate here. To avoid editorial construction, one may need
to transcribe the exact appearance, spatial location, and orientation of
each word, or (in the case of the Dickinson Hypertext Archive) link to the
manuscript itself.
"Forever cherished be the tree"
The poem which Johnson classifies as number 1570 was taken from the
manuscript of a letter which Emily Dickinson wrote to Mrs. Holland in
1883. However, this poem, whose first line in Johnson reads "Forever
honored be the Tree," also exists in variant form in a Susan Dickinson
transcription. While such a variation can provide an alternate reading
of the poem, an even more important implication is that this variation,
and the fact that Johnson chose the letter to Holland as the
"authoritative" version, reveals certain fundamental biases of the
editorial process, and broaches the question of whether one single set
of words can represent authoritativeness of text.
Perhaps the largest factor in Johnson's decision is that the text which
he chose was actually written by Emily herself, whereas the variant
copy, in which the first line reads "Forever cherished be the tree," was
transcribed by Susan Dickinson, presumably from a letter which was lost.
There is some merit in such a choice—if one is claiming that this is a
poem by Emily Dickinson, then a more "authoritative" text would be one
written by Emily's hand. More support for this claim is provided by the
fact that a second letter written by Emily (the recipient is unknown),
contains the same text, meaning the same words (see Johnson's note to
poem 1570). However, by placing this text in a position of dominance
over the transcription by Susan, Johnson is reinforcing the idea that
Emily was a poet of isolation; Johnson as editor is denying a sense of
collaboration in authorship between Emily and her sister-in-law.
There are several possible reasons that the Susan transcription varies
in the first line, and also varies in line six where she writes "Robin"
instead of the "Robins" in the manuscript to Holland. Perhaps the
original, "lost" letter to Susan was an early draft of the poem in which
Emily was working through the revision process; hence, Susan would have
transcribed it as Emily had written it to her. Or perhaps Emily had
written the words "Forever honored be the tree," yet Susan as an
individual wished to transcribe it differently, maybe even intending to
later suggest the change to Emily. A look at the manuscript of Susan's
transcription shows that at the end of the first line, she had
originally written "Forever cherished be the morn," yet had crossed out
the word "morn" and changed it to "tree." Though this alteration by
itself could be a simple mistake, when read in conjunction with the
other variants this text suggests a possibility that Susan was playing
with Emily's poem, revealing her to be the confidant and collaborative
author which other letters and manuscripts also highlight. We might
wonder what Johnson would have done if the original letter to Susan had
survived—would the Holland text still have been in a position of
superiority? Or would it have forced a realization of the mutuality that
is finally beginning to challenge the notion of author and authority?
------------------------
http://www.emilydickinson.org/correspondence/holland/l808.html
http://www.emilydickinson.org/correspondence/holland/jnp1570.html
http://www.emilydickinson.org/susan/zhst17e.html
Dickinson's poem # 508: "I'm ceded - I've stopped being
Theirs -"
Though Dickinson's poem that starts: "I'm ceded--I've stopped being
Theirs--" is fairly consistent in its representations in various texts, there are three
variant word choices that give the careful reader some insight into her philosophy and
theology. As an author of poems and letters meant to influence, Dickinson is continuously
struggling to put into words the sense and the meaning of her heart, her soul, her mind.
"Happy-Letter! Tell Her-/Tell Her-the page I never wrote! . . . Tell Her
just how the fingers-hurried-/Then-how they-stammered-slow-slow-" (#494 version 2
Johnson, p. 238). Dickinson was a poet to whom word choice and presentation was all in
all--taking excruciating care to convey her intent precisely. Hence, a close comparison
of the variant word choices in poem # 508 gives insight into her message.
While she was baptized as a child, without choice, now she has been
baptized "consciously, of Grace-".
Whatever the case, this second baptism--of love, of grace, of understanding--left
Dickinson a stronger, more powerful figure. Gone were the dolls, the toys
of childhood:
"Title divine, is mine"
Two letter versions of "Title divine, is mine" survive, one to Samuel
Bowles and one to Susan Dickinson. I find this fact fascinating. The
meaning of the poem changes when I consider who each was sent to and the
differences in each version seem to support this idea. Is one of these
versions "the" poem? The Bowles version is considered the earlier version
of the poem. To my surprise, the version sent to Susan is included in
Bianchi's edition of the poems with its structure somewhat
modified. Johnson privileges the Bowles version and includes the paragraph
of "letter" that followed the poem, making changes within it for sentence
structure. The included Susan version is also modified for sentence
structure. Franklin has both versions in his variorum and changed the
structure of each presentation, making the "letter" portion of the Bowles
complete lines and regulating the line arrangement of each version. This
condenses the Susan version of the poem and it appears much shorter than
the actual letter shows it to be.
There are several significant changes between the Bowles and Susan
versions. The Bowles copy of the poem is more "correct" than the Susan
version. Lines are arranged in more complete thought patterns, thus
necessarily changing stresses. The poem becomes decidedly more singsongy
without the pauses necessitated by shorter lines and more punctuation. One
of the most noticeable changes is the addition of numerous exclamation
points. In the letter-poems sent to Susan at that time, exclamation points
are not frequently used, but they abound in the material sent to
Bowles. Is the exclamation point a familiar convention of the time? They
change the tone of the poem, making it more "poetical," more flippant and
appropriate for the time. The poem itself feels more "published" because
of this addition and its recipient.
There are two textual changes. Line seven of fourteen reads "sends" in the
Bowles. In Susan's version it reads "gives" and a line has been
added; "Tri Victory" is line eighteen of twenty-two. I think these changes
fit the recipients of each version as well. Bowles' copy is the more
public of the two poems. God does send women to the earth to be His wife
or to be the wife of a man and women stroke the melody or agree with
convention when they become wives. Emily can be seen as asking if this is
the normal practice, but she still believes that she is the "Empress of
Calvary", God's wife as is appropriate for a woman who never marries. God
has, however, given Susan to Emily. She is the gift that makes Emily "The
Wife without / the Sign - ". Emily questions the "Tri Victory" (echoing
the Trinity?) of the woman who has been "Born - Bridalled / Shrouded",
receiving her personhood and having it taken away from her on her wedding
day. Each poem carries meaning that the recipients could glean because of
how they perceived Emily and their relationships with her.
Here's - what I had to "tell you" -
Garnet to Garnet -
"Here the Frailest Leaves of Me" from "Calamus"
In the anthology The Harper American Literature, the selections from Walt
Whitman's "Calamus" conclude with a three-line poem, "Here the Frailest
Leaves of Me": "Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest
lasting, / Here I shade and expose my thoughts, I myself do not expose
them, / And yet they expose me more than all my other poems" (page 1071).
With its reflection on the poems' material nature and their capacity for
revelation, the poem seems singularly fitted to serve as an epilogue.
However, its publication history shows its place in the "Calamus" series to
be more complicated than the anthology's selection would suggest.
The manuscript of the poem
(
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/060.htm) appears
on the same sheet as another poem (the basis for "Calamus" poem 38 in the
1860 edition). Its wording is somewhat different from that of any print
version of the poem. For example, the first line is "Here the frailest
leaves of me, and yet the strongest lasting: - the last to be fully
understood." While the poem's placement on the manuscript sheet does not
suggest that it concludes the series, the end of the first line implies
that function.
In the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass, the poem appears as number
forty-four (text image,
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1860/docsi/377.html)
in a series of forty-five "Calamus" poems. Now four lines, it begins,
"HERE are my last words, and the most baffling." As the poem is the
second-to-last in this edition's presentation of the "Calamus" series,
these are indeed almost the poet's last words; the poem's function here is
very close to that it serves in The Harper American Literature.
In the 1871-72 edition, the poem (text image,
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1871/text/docs/138.html)
appears with the same wording (though not the same punctuation) and
three-line structure as in the modern-day editions. The first line of the
1860 edition is gone, presumably because the poem is now in a different
context. Here it is fifteenth in a sequence of thirty "Calamus" poems; it
now anchors the series in the middle, rather than reflecting on it at its end.
In the 1891-92 edition, the text of the poem (text image,
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1891/text/docs/108.html)
is identical to that of the modern-day editions. The poem is now
twenty-five in a sequence of thirty-nine poems, and the arrangement of
poems is largely the same as in the 1871-72 edition.
While The Harper American Literature preserves the wording and punctuation
of the 1891-92 edition, its placement of the poem as the last of its five
selections from "Calamus" suggests a role that the poem did not serve in
that edition. Other than identifying (in an introduction on Whitman) the
themes of the "Calamus" series, the anthology provides no information about
the context of the selections. The date it lists below the poem, 1860, is
that of the first printing. In rather contradictory fashion, and with
inadequate indication, the anthology privileges both the final text
supervised by the author and the first publication of an earlier version of
the poem.
---------------
Transcription of the manuscript (by Christine Moritz):
MANUSCRIPT
1860 EDITION
1871-72 EDITION
1891-92 EDITION
"I am the poet of the body, from Leaves of Grass
While I originally chose my particular passage with the intention of
analyzing variations in punctuation, capitalization, and line breaks,
Whitman's use of slavery as a context in a manuscript version and his
subsequent abandonment of that context in the print editions proved to
be the more fascinating topic.
A segment of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass-"I am the poet of the
body, / And I am the poet of the soul"-stands as a thematic departure
from its antecedent as contained in a manuscript at the University of
Texas Humanities Research Center. In the manuscript, which appears to
capture the above lines during their conception, the body/soul
construction is integral to an attempt by Whitman to conflate the
enslaved and enslavers. At the top of the manuscript, the lines "I am
the poet of the body, / And I am the poet of the soul" parallel another,
more problematic construction of double-identity:
However, it is when one delves into the figurative possibilities of the
coupling of slave and master that Whitman's abandonment of the concept
becomes puzzling. When one asks who the "I" of "I am the poet of slaves,
and of the masters of slaves" might be, the metaphorical possibilities
point to Whitman's own project of finding the divergent voices of
America within himself and also suggest the duality, or hybridization,
that was a central theme of 19th-century racial literary discourse. The
"I," of course, represents Whitman the poet, but it also incorporates
several other identities-the mulatto, the South, and the American
nation-that are comprised of dual or disparate selves.
The mulatto figure served in numerous 19th-century fictional works as
the corporal site of racial intersection. William Wells Brown's Clotel
(1853), Francis Harper's Iola Leroy (1892), and Charles Chesnutt's The
Marrow of Tradition (1901) are just a few of the texts that use the
mulatto figure to examine incoherent racial and national identity.
Considering Whitman's bold self-proclamation-"Of every hue and caste am
I, of every rank and religion"-it seems that he would have remained
committed in print to the mulatto image, born of slaves and the masters
of slaves, which so aptly represented the crosscurrents running through
the 19th-century South and the American nation.
1855
I am the poet of the body
The I go with the slaves of the earth are mine and
And I Entering into both, and
"The disdain ans calmness of martyrs,"
The disdain ans calmness of martyrs,
I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs,
My original intent was to analyze the removal of the ellipses from this
passage in editions printed after 1855. However, as I began to think about
that, I noticed the last line of the passage above it, "All these I feel
or am." Whitman is personifying this hounded slave. In analyzing why this
proves problematic to me, several questions arose. Is it one thing to
sympathize and another to propose to take on that persona of the
victim? Why would Whitman choose to do this?
On the Whitman and Slavery website are texts written in or around the same
time frame as LOG. It was published some ten years after Frederick
Douglass' epic Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass and in the same
year as My Bondage, My Freedom. Numerous other texts came out of this
period that describe the brutality of slavery and the perils of
escape. Perhaps this passage and all the others on the slave were
Whitman's way of adding his voice to the conversation established by these
texts. Admittedly, his poetic voice describing the biting dogs, the oozing
skin, and the blows to the head with whip-stocks is hauntingly
accurate. However, this doesn't negate the fact that Whitman purporting to
be this slave is unsettling. What are his reasons? It was suggested by one
critic that he may have felt heroic or morally empowered. Constructions of
heroism can be found in passage 10 where he brings the runaway slave into
his home, throwing all caution to the wind, while sitting with him,
waiting with his fire-lock for trouble? Why did he take so great a risk?
DH Lawrence actually criticizes Whitman for what he considers a feigned
sympathy for the slave. He contends that the slave feels his status deep
in his soul. He has experienced a soul-killing. Douglass attests to this
same sentiment in his Narrative and expressed that this was one of the
overwhelming reasons that he risked his life to escape. He was dying there
anyway. To the contrary, Lawrence feels that Whitman cannot feel this same
thing in his soul because it was never dying in bondage. Instead of trying
to personify the enslaved, Lawrence contends, Whitman should be trying to
help him fight the power that enslaves him and aid him in the journey his
soul must make after he has gained his liberty.
Lawrence's take on it is very interesting. I would agree with him because
slavery is such an individualized experience that only another who has
been through can understand. There is nothing wrong with sympathizing, for
that is what we do today. However, we can't pretend to expressly be that
slave because of that very individual soul experience Lawrence spoke
of. We can feel it in different ways, because a different kind of slavery
exists today in very subversive forms. However, it is unlike that
experienced by Douglass. Thus, Whitman saying "I am [this wounded
slave]" proves to be an area of contention at best.
Whitman's "This Moment Yearning and Thoughtful"
As we discussed briefly in class, Walt Whitman's "Calamus" poems differ
markedly from the manuscript form to print. The poems also undergo further
transformations in subsequent editions of Leaves of Grass. I decided to do
a closer examination of his poem "This Moment Yearning and Thoughtful." As
Whitman attempts to mask his own desires, the poem loses some of the
strength of the manuscript version as he alters it for publication. Now,
access to his manuscript allows us a broader view into Whitman's
transformation.
The first alteration from manuscript to print is in the first line.
Whitman changes "it seems to me there are other men, in other lands,
yearning and pensive" to "yearning and thoughtful" in the 1860 publication
of Leaves of Grass. The manuscript version's repetition creates a close
connection between Whitman and other men that becomes distanced by the
change to "thoughtful." While the two words are synonyms, the repetition of
the manuscript creates a closer bond. It is this bond between men that is a
major theme of the poem. By the 1881 version of the poem, Whitman changes
the speaker's "pensive" to "thoughtful," reestablishing the bond. However,
elsewhere in the poem, major praise of men is expunged with the dropping, in
1881, of the line "It seems to me they are as wise, beautiful, benevolent,
as any in my own lands." It seems that once Whitman felt he needed to drop
the more direct praise of men, he wanted to at least reestablish the opening
parallel connection of the manuscript.
While the changes to the opening line are subtle between versions,
there is one other change from the manuscript to print that shows the
suppression of Whitman's desires. In the third line, Whitman changes the
word "love" to "attached." The manuscript version has a simplicity of
expression that the print versions can never quite reach; Whitman seems to
stumble over the change each time. In the manuscript the line is "I should
love them as I love men in my own lands." The first time the poem appears
in print, the line is changed to "I should become attached to them, as I do
to men in my own lands." The change from "love" to "should become attached"
is wordier and also loses the parallel expression and repetition of the
manuscript form, again lessening the expression of Whitman's bond to men.
In the 1881 version, Whitman removes the comma that separates "them" from
"as" in what seems to be an attempt to regain the connection of the
repetition of the manuscript version . Without the comma, there is a closer
connection between Whitman's feelings for these other men, but, as with the
first line, it does not approach the manuscript version. With the
availability of the manuscript on-line, Whitman readers can now see the full
expression of the poem that he himself had to weaken in print versions.
"The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses"
1860 Edition (atop p. 37 in text image):
66. The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses
67. I behold the picturesque giant and love himand
66. The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses
1881-82 Edition (dashes gonetop of page again)):
13
13
Just a page and one-half after the "sweated" and "bruis'd"
runaway slave is featured, we are introduced to the Negro in the stone-yard. He is a near-perfect physical specimen, and
Whitman notices only externality as is his m.o., highlighting his external features as if filming
the frames of a vignette and directing the reader's gaze with punctuation rather than lighting.
Note the 1860 edition in which the dash/comma combination guides the reader to pause as
Whitman describes in turn the Negro's strength, his "steady" posture, his "ample neck and
breast," his "calm and commanding" gaze, his "crispy" hair, and "his polish'd and perfect limbs"
in the sunlight. Notice that the 1867 and 1871-72 editions force the reader's unwavering gaze
toward this Negro with the dash/semi-colon combination drawing them nearer to a full stop
between frames. Yet, as the editions progress, and as the immediacy of the Civil War diminishes,
Whitman's need for the audience to stop and take notice of each frame wanes as well; the dashes
and semi-colons are replaced by commas entirely in the 1881-82 and 1891-' editions. Could it
be that the Negro, or any of the individuals portrayed in Whitman's vignettes, become less
arresting? Does the ordinary nature of Whitman's subjects -- these multiple "selves" in the
"Song"-- inevitably demand less intense scrutiny? Without altering word choice, is there any
method of lessening this intensity other than changing punctuation?
These are important questions, and they do make it possible to reduce the punctuation changes in this section to a mere representation of wholistic change in subsequent editions, rather than an indication of the diminution of the Negro's importance. However, another look at the passage creates some doubt. Whitman's "love" for this being can be questioned, for after his insistence on his "perfection," he labels him a "picturesque giant," a phrase that could be considered dismissive. Within 19th-century American literature, particularly that of the latter half, the word "picturesque" was often used to describe something delightful or charming, but rather quaint; it seemed a generic term given to things briefly noticed as enchanting, but quickly
forgotten by the passerby. Not only is the Negro "picturesque," he is also a "giant," literally very
large, but also a being of lore and fairy tales. He becomes fictive, a "perfect," "polish'd" "giant"
who is gentle and non-threatening despite his "commanding" gaze and obvious physical
prowess -- a character who can be "[beheld]" and "love[d]." Thus, perhaps the less forceful
punctuation only acts as a further means of reduction.
"To A Stranger" from "Calamus"
Where do you draw the line?: Line Breaks in Whitman
Whitman's poetry is characterized by long, winding lines that often require
multiple breaks to fit on a page. Allen Ginsberg built upon Whitman's idea of the
long line in his own work and correlated the length of the line with the
physicality of the speaking poet: he called a line long enough to be read in one
breath, obviously enough, a "breath" and a line with multiple breaks a "strophe,"
possibly referring to the movement of the Greek chorus across the stage (the
"strophe" is what the chorus would say as it moved in one direction with the
"antistrophe" being what they said moving in the other). While scholars have
argued that the long Whitman line originates everywhere from his experience as a
newspaper editor and writer to his admiration for Italian opera, let's consider
Ginsberg's insight about the physicality of a line of text as either an internal
breath or an external movement along with Donna Haraway's maxim that "bodies tell
a contested political history."
The original manuscript of "To A Stranger" from Calamus reads:
(
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/051.htm)
(
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1882/text/frameset.html).
"Trickle Drops"
Whitman's revisions of the opening of the poem "Trickle Drops" remove the
languid sexual aurora of the manuscript version while emphasizing the
imagery of blood and wounding. Exactly why Whitman makes these changes is,
of course, unclear. Given the significant alternations between the 1860 and
the 1871 editions, these revisions might be seen as a response to charges
that the poems newly added to Leaves of Grass were even more vulgar than the
original poems
(
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1860/reviews/nytimes.html). However, these changes --- especially the emphasis on wounding and blood
--- might equally be seen as a response to the suffering of the Civil War.
The first line of the manuscript version, "Trickle, slow drops"
(
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/039.htm),
emphasizes the drop's languid movement since all three words connote slow
movement. Further, the pacing of this line emphasizes this torpidity.
Although the word "trickle," may be read quickly, the following comma and
the long vowel sounds of "slow" and "drops" slow the line's pace.
In this version, Whitman leaves the meaning of "drops" unclear. The second
to third lines read, "Candid, from me falling - drip, / bleeding drops,".
Here, Whitman defines the drops not as being blood but as moving in the
manner of blood. Indeed, the second line highlights the motion of this drop
since the term "drip" follows a dash and is followed by a comma.
In the 1860 version, Whitman adds the phrase "O DROPS of me!" before
"trickle, slow drops," (
http:www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1860/docsi/361.html).
Ending this phrase with an exclamation point introduces a new sense of
urgency into the poem. Further, this addition emphasizes the close relation
between these drops and Whitman's body thus demanding that these drops be
understood as semen, sweat or blood. Again, the second line, which
describes these drops as "bleeding," allows this indeterminate meaning to
continue. Thus, here Whitman does not remove the possible sexual
connotations of his drops at the start of the poem.
The 1871 version rewrites the opening to read, "Trickle, drops! my blue
veins leaving! / O drops of me! Trickle, slow drops," (
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1871/text/docs/134.html). With this revision, Whitman demands that the drops be seen as blood and
that he be seen as wounded; these drops are falling from his veins. Thus,
the phrase "O drops of me!" now suggests blood-loss. Further, by adding
these three exclamations before the phrase "trickle, slow drops," Whitman
substantially speeds the opening pace of the poem and highlights the urgency
of the fact that he is bleeding. Indeed, the opening phrase "Trickle,
drops!" reads like a command for the drops to begin to move.
The 1891 version maintains the wording of the 1871 version but alters the
punctuation in the first phrase: "Trickle drops!" (
http://www.whitmanarchive.org/works/leaves/1891/text/docs/104.html)
The removal of the comma after "Trickle" quickens the pace of this phrase.
Now, "Trickle" seems to describe the type of drop. Resultantly, the line
now highlights the drop's existence rather than its movement. Thus, the
emphasis of these opening lines now lies in the presence of blood itself.
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