The Essence of Emily Dickinson
She wrote of storms, and winds, and wild March skies,
Sunsets and dawns, gardens and lawns,
And birds, and bees, and butterflies.
The first robin of Spring gave her reason for hope
Beyond crowning of monarch, or birthday of pope.
And she wrote of the seasons with a delicate flair,
Like the leaves turning red in Fall's altered air.
Her human friends were trusted, though few,
But companions enough for the world she knew.
She wrote often of death's quiet dignity,
Never with rancor or morbidity,
But always with awareness of her own mortality.
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