I’m not even an occasional reader of poetry, much less an
avid one, and yet I do respond strongly to the power and richness of words. And
sometimes a particular line from a poem strikes me as having a quality of
subtle but profound knowing wrapped up in a few brief, perfectly chosen words
(which I suppose is what good poetry is all about.) Such a one is Emily
Dickinson’s
Because I could not
stop for Death
He kindly stopped for
me
I think about it often, and it struck me recently that the line might be frowned upon these days by those who regard the recognition of gender as a sure and certain ticket to perdition’s flame. They would insist that it must be:
Because I could not
stop for Death
They kindly stopped
for me
It doesn’t take much poetic nous – nor even recognition of the power and richness of words – to know what dreadful carnage the use of the plural pronoun would wreak upon such a notable creation.
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