The beauty of Emily Dickinsonâs (1830-1886) poetry glows like morning light through a curtainâsoft, sacred, and alive. Her words are the breath of stillness, capturing the ecstatic truth that life itself is a miracle worth observing.
âDwell in possibility,â she whispered to the world. And so she did.
Rarely leaving her Amherst, Massachusetts home, Dickinson tended a wild garden of thought and verse. "I never had to go anywhere to find my paradise," she confided, and wrote hundreds of poemsâ1,775 to be exactâstitched together in bundles of quiet brilliance.
âPublication is the auction of the mind,â she once declared. Only seven of her poems were published during her lifetime, all anonymously. But her voice? It echoes now with immortal grace.
âThat love is all there is is all we know of love.â Dickinsonâs heart beat in metaphors and musings, her pen dancing across envelopes and scraps, turning language into stars.
She caught miracles in the hum of nature, found God in a raindrop, and listened closely to the hymn of hope. âNot knowing when the dawn will come,â she wrote, âI open every door.â
To read Emily Dickinson is to linger in a quiet room full of wonderâto feel deeply, wildly, and alone, yet somehow profoundly understood.
There is ecstasy in living. To catch the dawn, open every door. â¨