Emily Dickinson’s speaker starts by looking at painted portraits—the “fair, fictitious People” on a wall, women and ivory men, boys and girls frozen in canvas. They’ve been plucked from ordinary life and turned into silent keepsakes, and she quietly wonders who they were. But that thought opens into something larger. She turns to the dead themselves, trusting they now dwell in a place far “perfecter” than ours, inheriting a delight we can barely guess at. They are blesseder, she feels, because they know what we only hope for and receive what we only pray for. They wait for us with a transport so intense it would sting, except that holiness softens it. To them, we are still exiles; they have gone home through death’s “easy Miracle.” And that same road, she reminds us, is the one we all must take. The mood is serene and gently pained, a hovering between earthly longing and a tender, unforced trust in reunion.
Those fair -- fictitious People — Summary
Those fair -- fictitious People -- The Women -- plucked away From our familiar Lifetime -- The Men of Ivory --
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas -- Who stay upon the Wall In Everlasting Keepsake -- Can Anybody tell?
We trust -- in places perfecter -- Inheriting Delight Beyond our faint Conjecture -- Our dizzy Estimate --
Remembering ourselves, we trust -- Yet Blesseder -- than We -- Through Knowing -- where We only hope -- Receiving -- where we -- pray --
Of Expectation -- also -- Anticipating us With transport, that would be a pain Except for Holiness --
Esteeming us -- as Exile -- Themself -- admitted Home -- Through easy Miracle of Death -- The Way ourself, must come --