Quality quick print dickinson12/5/2023 Whenever stirred, by whatever cause, she trapper her mood, then waited for her messenger, as vigilant as any spider. Through the medium of these written messages she spoke across the grass to us, entrusting them to a servant, a friend, one of us or one of them, as might happen. But she had her finger on the pulse of events and noted chosen phenomena unerringly for us, with her own comment. Though never an invalid until the last two years of her life, she did not care to go beyond her own door-yard and garden, finding infinity in the horizon of her own soul. The gambol of her mind on paper was her pastime. Though she dwelt only ‘a hedge away,’ as she put it, form our own home, with but a grass lawn between, crossed by a ribbon path, ‘just wide enough for two who love,’ she had the habit of sending her thoughts to us as other people would have spoken them. ![]() Her letters and notes to her brother’s family, sacredly hoarded by them and denied publication, contain numberless phrases of universal truth, written as they were a lifetime ago by this shy recluse in her retired New England home, intrenched by lilacs and guarded by bumble-bees. And we who knew her best wish that she could write us now what she is ‘doing there,’ confident of her unique fitness to be the scribe of immortality. ![]() ‘Would you rather I wrote you what I am doing here, or who I am loving there?’ asked Emily Dickinson in a letter from Washington, where, as a girl, she went with her father during his Congressional term.
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