It's all I have to bring to-day
This, and my heart beside
THis, and my heart, and all the fields,
And all the meadows wide.
Be sure you count, should I forget, -
Someone the sum could tell, -
This, and my heart, and all the bees
Which in the clover dwell.
-Emily Dickinson
The darling Rob loaned me a book about Emily Dickinson, and I keep going to read it and then it makes me sad. It's sad the way Housman is sad, or The Age of Innocence. It is sad because of all the things that never happened, because...they were afraid? Because it takes an act of will to make things happen, and it's easier to let them happen or not happen to you? For some reason, a rioutous life made of sad things that happened isn't nearly as rough on me as the stories of where nothing ever happened.
Then again, Dickinson and Housman were poets. Maybe the events of their lives occurred inside their heads.
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