Poetry

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was a famously reclusive New England poet, and almost none of the hundreds of poems she wrote were published in her lifetime. Not due to her nonstandard use of capitalization and punctuation, or her refusal to title her works, but because she had little inclination to share her rich, inner life with the rest of the world. Her first collection of poetry was published four years after her death by her friends, though whether or not she would have approved of their actions is a matter for debate. Certainly, poetry lovers have reason to be glad of it. This poem, one of my favorites about the sea, is taken from that volume:

I started Early -- Took my Dog --
And visited the Sea --
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me --

And Frigates -- in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands --
Presuming Me to be a Mouse --
Aground -- upon the Sands --

But no Man moved Me -- till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe --
And past my Apron -- and my Belt --
And past my Bodice -- too --

And made as He would eat me up --
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve --
And then -- I started -- too --

And He -- He followed -- close behind --
I felt his Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle -- Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl --

Until We met the Solid Town --
No One He seemed to know --
And bowing -- with a Mighty look --

At me -- The Sea withdrew --

-- Emily Dickinson