If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
Emily Dickinson, letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1870)
The Dyings have been too deep for me, and before I could raise my Heart from one, another has come.
Emily Dickinson, 1884
Susan Huntington Gilbert Dickinson
- Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me … I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you, feel that I cannot wait, feel that now I must have you—that the expectation once more to see your face again, makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast … my darling, so near I seem to you, that I disdain this pen, and wait for a warmer language.
- Emily Dickinson (Wikipedia)
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Little-known during her life, she has since been regarded as one of the most important figures in American poetry. Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, into a prominent family with strong ties to its community. After studying at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she briefly attended the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family’s home in Amherst. Evidence suggests that Dickinson lived much of her life in isolation. Considered an eccentric by locals, she developed a penchant for white clothing and was known for her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even to leave her bedroom. Dickinson never married, and most friendships between her and others depended entirely upon correspondence.
