Emily Dickinson by Linda Pastan

We think of hidden in a white dress
among the folded linens and sachets
of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight
sending jellies and notes with no address
to all the wondering Amherst neighbors.
Eccentric as New England weather
the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or gentle,
blew two half imagined lovers off.
Yet legend won't explain the sheer sanity
of vision, the serious mischief
of language, the economy of pain.

by Linda Pastan

Other poems by 'Linda Pastan'

To A Daughter Leaving Home

Home For Thanksgiving

Prosody 101

What We Want

The Happiest Day

The New Dog

Self-Portrait

Jump Cabling

Pears

Wind Chill