Poet of the Soul
Emily Dickinson was born on 10th December 1830 in Amherst, U.S. She died on 15th May 1886 in Amherst. Her sister Lavinia found her books of poetry and began the process of making the poetry public.
The first collection entitled Poems by Emily Dickinson was published in 1890 and was met with praise. Opinions regarding the poet's talents were mixed in the twentieth century, but she is now one of the most important icons in American Poetry despite being unrecognised during her time. Most of her work as a poet was hidden from her family and the surrounding community until after her death in 1886. Only ten poems out of the 1800 she wrote were published during her lifetime.
Her most popular correspondents were her brother Austin, and a collection of female friends including her sister-in-law Susan Gilbert. In 1858, Dickinson began to organize her massive volumes of poetry into manuscript-books. Over the course of seven years she compiled about 800 poems into neat bundles. Her intent with this collection is unknown, but it seems likely she was readying her work to be published posthumously (Biography of Emily Dickinson).
Do I repine, is it all murmuring, or am I sad and lone, and cannot, cannot help it? Sometimes when I do feel so, I think it may be wrong, and that God will punish me by taking you away; for he is very kind to let me write to you, and to give me your sweet letters, but my heart wants more.
To most ordinary people, Susan Gilbert was known to be the wife of Austin Dickinson, who was Emily Dickinson's brother. However, there has been evidence that Emily Dickinson's first love and probably her greatest love was Susan Gilbert.
"The two young women took long walks in the woods together, exchanged books, read poetry to each other, and commenced an intense, intimate correspondence that would evolve and permute but would last a lifetime. 'We are the only poets,' Emily told Susan, 'and everyone else is prose.'" (Emily Dickinson's Electric Love Letters to Susan Gilbert)
Will you be kind to me, Susie? I am naughty and cross, this morning, and nobody loves me here; nor would you love me, if you should see me frown, and hear how loud the door bangs whenever I go through; and yet it isn't anger — I don't believe it is, for when nobody sees, I brush away big tears with the corner of my apron, and then go working on — bitter tears, Susie — so hot that they burn my cheeks, and almost scorch my eyeballs, but you have wept much, and you know they are less of anger than sorrow.
Explore the fascinating world of Emily Dickinson's poetry and life
Learn More