Emily Dickinson gives us a much needed cause to pause and ponder as she discovers an uncommon serenity and perspective within the modest sphere of a dew drop and how it is in some terms, infinite and a world unto itself. In “A Dew sufficed itself,” the opening lines rest in perfect contentment of completeness:
A Dew sufficed itself
And satisfied a Leaf
And thought “how vast a Notion”
What Continents of Turf
The dewdrop does not seek any grander stage. It experiences sublime contentment on a single leaf, measuring the green blade beneath it as an expanse of “Continents of Turf.” Smallness does not bring a feeling of any form of lack; the droplet exists as an entire world unto itself, complete and content in its own curve and requiring no outside validation to make it feel whole.
Dickinson deepens this serene fullness through shifting perspectives and anthropomorphic dialog:
Said Bud to Lady’s Breast
“How infinite an Realm”
That Such a Disc of Snow
Should furnish Suzeraine
To Union of the Small
New Consolations come
As from the Gnat’s Retreat
The Circumference of Gem
The bud finds its sovereign reign within a modest space, just as the gnat discovers total refuge and majesty within the sharp contour of a stone. Insignificance dissolves in this quiet geometry of contentment and inner fulfillment. To be small is relative and is to possess a unified, coherent, unbroken sphere of one’s own space and dominion, where even the tiniest circumstance finds a way to discover completion.
This quiet joy of being small yet gigantic and whole hums through the Persian masters. In Rumi, the droplet of knowledge (qatreh-ye danesh) granted to the seeker carries within its modest body the seed of the boundless sea:
قطرهٔ دانش که بخشیدی ز پیش
متصل گردان به دریاهای خویش
“The drop of knowledge You granted from before—
unite it, at last, with Your vast seas.”
(Masnavi, Book I, line 1882)
Even in its initial, solitary form, the drop is complete in its origin. It holds the divine imprint, requiring only the fulfillment of its natural course to re-enter the great ocean without losing the essence it carried across the journey.
Alongside this droplet, Rumi’s mote of dust dancing in a sunbeam knows no envy of the sun:
ذرّه ذرّه کاندرین ارض و سماست
جنس خود را همچو کاه و کهرباست
“Every single mote dancing across this earth and sky
turns toward its own kind, like straw drawn to amber.”
(Masnavi, Book VI)
The dust mote moves in pure alignment with the cosmos, content with its humble dance, lacking nothing in the radiant beam that holds it.
In Hafez, this inward completeness becomes the tavern corner (konj-e faraghat), where the lover rests with a heart entirely rich in its outward poverty:
گنج زر گر نبود کنج قناعت باقیست
آن که آن داد به شاهان به گدایان این داد
“Though gold treasures be absent, the corner of contentment remains;
the One who granted crowns to kings bestowed this upon the dervish.”
Hafez discovers infinite wealth in the simple cup and the quiet corner. While kings wage wars over vast empires, the mendicant sits with an untroubled heart, sovereign within a few paces of shade.
Dickinson’s dewdrop rests upon its leaf, untouched by the vast sea beyond; Rumi’s drop of knowledge and whirling dust mote remain anchored in the light of the whole; Hafez toasts to the kingdom of an untroubled breast. The tiny sphere holds everything it needs, fully at home in the beauty of its own measure.
