Emily Dickinson’s diagnosis: correct, as always.

    I’ve somewhat convinced myself that there is an Emily Dickinson poem for almost every sentiment in my emotional encyclopedia/dictionary. It is pretty amazing, that is why I love her. And because my words really couldn’t say it half as well – this is the poem for the week:

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.


It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,

Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.


And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,


As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame, 
And could not breathe without a key;
And I was like midnight, some,


When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.


But most like chaos,–stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar,–
Or even a report of land 
To justify despair.

Author: Susanna

I'm Susanna, a 20-year-old Christian girl incorrigibly addicted spontaneous adventures. My first dream was to become a pioneer. Unfortunately, I was born a couple centuries late, so I've decided to read, cook, run, and travel the world until my time machine is finished. You'll mostly likely find me getting into trouble and/or eating licorice. I am currently blogging the misadventures of a middle-school teacher in training. Come join me on my quest to become the next Ms. Frizzle!

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