Sunday

Two rows ahead of me Sits a red-headed,
Freckle-faced, Pencil-legged little girl.
She is surrounded by the sound
Of a hundred voices singing--
But she sits silently,
Fascinated by her sky-scraper father
Standing just a few feet away,
and by His booming voice
Echoing above the congregation.
He notices his wide-eyed admirer
and stoops to hold her.
She wraps her arms around his neck
While her pencil-legs dangle freely.
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Ode to Emily Dickenson

Oh, Emily, I think I am you.
I've seen your words and know them well.
You're right--
Birds are more understanding than most people,
I would rather think of Emerson than meet him,
And the four walls of an empty room are more inviting
Than a room full of frog-like scholars could ever be.
I don't know why, Emily, but I understand you.
I read your words yesterday with those ribbiting students.
They laughed at you--
But I didn't.
I felt sad--
Sad because I am you,
Sad because they were laughing at us.

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This poem is a response to this poem by her:


I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

-Emily Dickinson