Emily's Private Language

Emily Dickinson's gem-like poems are filled with the private language of a reclusive heart, and the imagination at work in that heart is all the more striking because it is so private.  But even her letters show the kind of sparks and imaginative leaps that hint at a private vision of the world we live in -- or perhaps, a vision of the world we share, but can not see without imagination.

Here's something from a letter she wrote on the occassion of her mother's death:

There was no earthly parting. She slipped from our fingers like a flake gathered by the wind, and is now part of the drift called "the infinite."

We don't know where she is, though so many tell us.

I believe we shall in some manner be cherished by our Maker—that the One who gave us this remarkable earth has the power to surprise that which He has caused. Beyond that all is silence...

Mother was very beautiful when she had died. Seraphs are solemn artists. The illumination that comes but once paused upon her features, and it seemed like hiding a picture to lay her in the grave; but the grass that received my father will suffice his guest, the one he asked at the altar to visit him all his life.

I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea...Thank you for remembering me. Remembrance—mighty word ...

Lovingly, Emily

(By the way, April is "Poetry Month", and Knopf is sending out a poem each day to celebrate that.  Emily's letter was part of today's edition.)