The Belle of Amherst (A poem on Emily Dickinson)
A closet poet once said:
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."
And even after she did pass,
Her soul remained in the form of words.
A recluse from society
Like many before and after,
She strung words together,
There was no thinker like her.
Unpublished during her lonely living,
Her isolation gave her stories to share,
Letters, poems, and many a fascicle
Were her legacy that she left to his care.
Transcendentalism to the core she explored,
If there will be more like her, no one knows.
A closet poet once said:
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."
And even after she did pass,
Her soul remained in the form of words.
A recluse from society
Like many before and after,
She strung words together,
There was no thinker like her.
Unpublished during her lonely living,
Her isolation gave her stories to share,
Letters, poems, and many a fascicle
Were her legacy that she left to his care.
Transcendentalism to the core she explored,
If there will be more like her, no one knows.
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