Emily Dickinson

Autumn overlooked my knitting;

AUTUMN overlooked my knitting;
"Dyes," said he, "have I

Dishonor a flamingo

Autumn's dyes are so vivid they'd make a flamingo look pale—they'd 'dishonor' it by comparison. This is competitive boasting about color intensity.

Could dishonor a flamingo."
"Give them me," said I.
Cochineal I chose for

Cochineal dye

Cochineal is a deep crimson dye made from crushed insects—expensive, vivid, and the brightest red available in the 1860s. It's what you'd use for the most intense color.

Deeming
It resemble thee—

Border dusker

The 'dusker' (darker) border is the edging or trim. She's choosing a muted color for herself versus the bright cochineal for 'thee.'

And the little border dusker—
That resembles me.
Source Wikipedia Poetry Foundation

Reading Notes

The Needlework Economy

Dickinson wrote this around 1859-1862, when women's needlework wasn't just craft—it was coded communication. The colors you chose, the patterns you worked, the gifts you made: all carried meaning. When she picks cochineal for "thee" and something dusker for herself, she's not just describing thread. She's encoding a relationship into fabric.

Cochineal matters here. This wasn't cheap drugstore dye—it was made from crushed cochineal insects imported from Mexico, producing the most intense, expensive red available. It's what you'd use for something precious. The flamingo comparison isn't random: both flamingos and cochineal get their color from the same carotenoid compounds. Autumn is literally offering colors that would outshine nature's own pigments.

The repetition of the entire poem (it appears twice identically) has puzzled editors. Some think it's a copying error, but Dickinson often revised by recopying. This might be two drafts, or she might be making the repetition structural—like working the same pattern twice in knitting, once for each person.

Autumn as Merchant

Dickinson personifies Autumn as a traveling dye-seller, a peddler figure common in 19th-century New England. He "overlooked" her knitting—meaning he looked over her shoulder, examining her work like a merchant assessing a customer's needs. His sales pitch is pure swagger: dyes so vivid they'd embarrass a flamingo.

Her response—"Give them me"—uses archaic syntax ("give them to me" would be standard). This is Dickinson's characteristic compression, but it also echoes biblical language, giving the exchange unexpected weight. She's not just buying thread. She's accepting gifts from a season.

The final image splits the couple into colors: bright cochineal for the beloved, a "dusker" border for herself. In needlework, borders frame the central design. She's literally positioning herself as the frame around someone else's brightness—or she's being honest about who gets to be vivid and who fades to the edge.