I write to Abiah tonight, . . . because I am feeling lonely; some of my friends are gone, and some of my friends are sleeping the churchyard sleep—the hour of evening is sad—it was once my study hour—my master has gone to rest, and the open leaf of the book, and the scholar at school alone, make the tears come, and I cannot brush them away; I would not if I could, for they are the only tribute I can pay the departed [Leonard Humphrey].) You have stood by the grave before; I have walked there sweet summer evenings and read the names on the stones, and wondered who would come and give me the same memorial; but I have never laid my friends there, and forgot that they too must die; . . . To those bereaved so often that home is no more here, and whose communion with friends is only in prayers, there must be much to hope for, but when the unreconciled spirit has nothing left but God, that spirit is lone indeed. I don't think there will be any sunshine, or any singing-birds in the spring that's coming. I shall look for an early grave then, when the grass is growing green.——to Abiah Root, 1850
They also recited Dickinson's letters and poems, chiefly from those used in the ballet, though someone, a parent perhaps, had thought to bring the collected verse, and so the tribute grew. There was a momentary shiver when a fiddler struck up a tune from the opacity somewhere between the 1730 Knoll and the newer section of the cemetery where we stood. In an instant, we relaxed, and he soon came over to join us. A short time later, a group of college women—clearly on their way from a party, but one that had somehow prompted them to want to render their homage to Emily—wandered our way in need of directions, which we gladly supplied.
The Poets light but Lamps ~
Themselves — go out —The Wicks they stimulateIf vital LightInhere as do the Suns ~Each Age a LensDisseminating theirCircumference —