Correspondence with EmilyCorrespondence with EmilyThe vast majority of Emily Dickinson's (1830-1886) poetry was discovered after her death. During her lifetime, it appears only seven of her poems were published, without her permission and with considerable editorial revisions. Her sister found 1,775 of her poems in a bureau drawer, and others were discovered in old letters she had written to her friends. Her poetry continued to be published from 1890 to 1955.
Not too long ago, while looking over my scrapbook, I discovered some correspondence from Emily, and some poems I sent in reply.
Dear Robert,
It's such a little thing to weep,
So short a thing to sigh
And yet by trades the size of these
We men and women die.
Love, Emily
Dear Emily
My life is measured out by sighs
And from tears I shed.
So I seek comfort from my friends,
Both the living, and the dead.
Love, Robert
Dear Robert,
My life closed twice before its close,
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell,
Parting is all we know of heaven
And all we need of hell.
Love, Emily
Dear Emily,
Of all the sounds that I have heard,
The ones I most deplore
Are footsteps from departing friends--
The closing of the door.
And your door closed before we met
To share our poetry,
But I find comfort in your words--
They keep me company.
Love, Robert
Dear Robert,
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies.
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.
There's grief of want, and grief of cold,
A sort they call 'despair;'
There's banishment from native eyes
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary.
To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
Love, Emily
Dear Emily,
Your grief is but a friend of mine,
For I have known her well.
She rests within my mind
And makes my life a living hell.
Tis said that time will heal all wounds
And remove my sorrow,
Yet she resides within the rooms
I'll enter in tomorrow.
I doubt that she would choose to leave;
She's found a friend in me.
Her solitary purpose is
To keep me company.
And when I choose to take my leave
And big a fond farewell,
I fear that she will follow me
To heaven or to hell.
And much like Love, she'll stay with me,
Always by my side,
For throughout all eternity
She'll try to be my bride.
If death can come but only once,
Then let it be my fate
To find your soul waiting there
To join and be my mate.
The grief of want and grief of cold
Will always seek to reign,
Yet when your grief has merged with mine,
We will ignore the pain.
So wait for just a little while
Until we can commune
And share our souls through poetry,
For I am coming soon.
Love, Robert
Dear Robert,
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging,
I may remember him.
Love, Emily
Dear Emily,
It's easy to forget
A heart consumed by flame.
Experience is what is left
Once you forget his name.
The heat will dim when thoughts of him
Belong to yesterday.
It may take years to dry your tears
Before they fade away.
Love, Robert
Dear Robert,
So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed.
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be,
Immediately, that anguish stooped
Almost to jealousy.
Love, Emily
Dear Emily,
No need to cherish death.
So why seek martyrdom?
When all you have to do is live,
For death will surely come.
Be jealous of the living
And of the life they led.
Celebrate each new tomorrow
When praying for the dead.
Love, Robert
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