[Emily Dickinson’s House, now a Museum] The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, “Come in,” I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest, To offer whom a chair Were as impossible as hand A sofa to the air. No bone had he to bind him, His…
Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,- Prodigal blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words. . . . . . . . . . . I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The Stars about…
“ Poetry torn up by the roots, with rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and a fragrance not otherwise conveyed.” -Thomas Wentworth Higginson on her poetry. A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day. * * * *…
