Emily Dickinson’s speaker pulls us into a strange, unsettling logic. Dreaming, she says, is a mercy — if we were fully awake, reality would wound us. Even when dreams turn violent, they are only playing; we shriek, but it’s theatre. Outside, men die “externally” — real blood. But our own dying happens inside a “Drama” that never ends. So we move carefully around one another, afraid to open our eyes and shatter the illusion. The true terror is that the phantom we’ve been living might be a mistake, and the “livid Surprise” of waking life would turn us cold as granite grave-markers — just a name, an age, perhaps a phrase in Egyptian. The poem feels both gleeful and macabre, as if the speaker is half-smiling at the absurd relief of self-deception. Far better, the voice murmurs, to stay dreaming.
We dream -- it is good we are dreaming -- — Summary
We dream -- it is good we are dreaming -- It would hurt us -- were we awake -- But since it is playing -- kill us, And we are playing -- shriek --
What harm? Men die -- externally -- It is a truth -- of Blood -- But we -- are dying in Drama -- And Drama -- is never dead --
Cautious -- We jar each other -- And either -- open the eyes -- Lest the Phantasm -- prove the Mistake -- And the livid Surprise
Cool us to Shafts of Granite -- With just an Age -- and Name -- And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian -- It's prudenter -- to dream --