Stanzas 1-2 Summary

Stanza 1

There's been a Death, in the Opposite House,
As lately as Today —
I know it, by the numb look
Such Houses have — alway —

• Newsflash: Death Today. As if this were some kind of news report told on location, the speaker begins by announcing an event, its place, and its time, rounded to the nearest degree of certainty. 
• All of these facts, "Death," the "Opposite House," and "Today" stand out in Dickinson's characteristically wonky capitalization methods. 
• And this tidbit is set off by another original characteristic, Dickinson's famous dash. In this case, the dash gives these lines a feeling of breathlessness or immediacy. 
• By line 3, the speaker enters the poem to explain how he got the line on this gossip. Is the speaker just a nosy neighbor? We think so. After all, he's got a pretty straight view on the house across the way. You can picture him stationed at his window. 
• The speaker personifies the house in line 4, giving it the look of numbness on its metaphorical face. We might imagine the face of someone who's numbed by a recent death in the family. 
• Then things get awkward. Not only is "alway" not really a word, the final "s" dropped to fit the rhyme (with "Today" in line 2).
• Plus this word hangs off the edge of the line supported only by the two thin strands of dashes. It's out there all by it's lonesome—forever. Might that reinforce the whole death-is-a-journey-you-must-take-by-yourself-even-though-it-happens-to-everyone idea? Shmoop certainly thinks so.

Stanza 2

The Neighbors rustle in and out —
The Do/tor — drives/ away —
A Window opens like a Pod —
Abrupt — mechanically —

• This isn't your usual quick peek from behind the curtain kind of view on the neighbor's house. The speaker is camped out by the window for as long as it takes, watching the traffic, taking a tally of the comings and goings. Nosy much?
• With line 5's neighbors rustling in and out, you get a sense of just how close these houses are. The speaker's is right where he can hear the rustle of dresses and slacks worn by neighbors paying their respects. So close and yet so far. 
• No need for a doctor anymore, now that the battle is lost. He's probably there only to verify the death, anyway. Off he goes.
• Then we get an odd simile. The window opens like a pod, and in case you can't picture what that's like, the poet adds two more words: its opening is abrupt and mechanical. 
• But wait, the poet said the image was of a pod. A pod doesn't open abruptly. And last we checked, pods—as in peapods—are decidedly not mechanical. So what gives? You tell us, Shmoopers. 
• By the end of this stanza, we've got a pretty good sense of the poem's form and meter. Though the first stanza seems deliberately rough in terms of rhythm, these lines are much more regular, with the iambic (daDUM daDUM) tetrameter (four feet in a row, two syllables each) alternating with trimeter (three feet of two syllables each). 
• As it turns out, this particular form is called ballad meter. For more on this and the poem's offbeat rhyme scheme, check out our "Form and Meter."