Emily Dickinson




Emily Dickinson was a recluse. She was born in 1830 and died in 1886 and in that time wrote volumes of insightful and sensitive poetry, none of which were published until after her death. Her father was a successful attorney which allowed her to live a comfortable life financially. She started to seriously write poetry in her 20's and as her withdrawal from public grew more pronounced the events of her later life could increasingly be drawn only from inferences from the extensive poetry of her later years. In these years she dressed only in white, rarely left her house, and kept sporadic contact with only a few friends. During the fifteen year period of 1878 and 1883 she was believed to have fallen in love. There is much speculation as to who this man, or as some suggest woman, could have been. However, this love, and an increasing obsession with death, occupied much of her later writings. The rest of her poetry is a mix of observations on life and what she saw outside her window of the passing life of the little village of Amherst.





Poems

A door just opened on a street
Elysium is as far as to
For each ecstatic instant
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
I died for Beauty--but was scarce
I like to see it lap the miles
I lost a world the other day
I'm nobody! Who are you?
I never saw a Moor
I shall know why--when Time is over
I stepped from Plank to Plank
If I can stop one heart from breaking
If recollecting were forgetting
It dropped so low in my regard
It's all I have to bring to-day
It's such a little thing to weep
Success is counted sweetest
The first Day's Night had come
The Sky is low--the Clouds are mean
There is no frigate like a book
They say that "time assuages,"
This is my letter to the World
'Tis not that Dying hurts us so
To fight aloud, is very brave




Back to poetry page.

The author: hapgood@pipeline.com
ISP: http://www.mindspring.com
Last updated on: 3-29-98
Created with Corel WordPerfect Suite 8 .