Introduction

The vast majority of Emily Dickinson's (1830-1886) poetry was discovered after her death, for during her life time, only seven of her poems were published without her permission, and most with considerable editorial revisions. 1,775 of her poems were found in bureau drawer by her sister, while 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 scrap-book, I found some of her poems in letters she wrote to me, and some poems I sent back in reply.

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Correspondence with Emily

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Dear Robert, Life's Trades 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 living, and the dead! love, Robert

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Dear Robert, Parting 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

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Dear Robert, Grief's 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 thy 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 if 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 bid a found 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 be my bride. If death can only come but 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

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Dear Robert Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! 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's 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

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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

© 1997 Robert Kogan