May 15th is the day Emily Dickinson died. She hadn’t left her Amherst, Massachusetts home in 21 years. Perhaps it will be of some solace to struggling poets to know that scarcely ten of her poems were published in her 55-year lifetime, many of those altered without her permission by editors who supposedly knew better than she what the public would accept. Though Dickinson was a lifelong student of botany and an avid gardener, her poetry leaned, like a gravedigger’s shovel, toward the morbid.
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