185 years of Emily Dickinson.

The great recluse, the poet of distance and soul, Miss Dickinson, in her seclusion, to be later extreme seclusion, gave us forty notebooks of perfect books, a cache of poems in slant rhyme, after her "churchyard sleep" quite loosed in a a chest, after all discovered and brought to life. Introverted  like the man in black, Fernando of the same chest, the woman in white 1800 poems she left. A solemn thing – it was – I said –A Woman – White – to be –And wear – if God should count me fit – Her blameless mystery  
It´s first to ask like her : "...my verse is alive?"and to remember:


Emily Dickinson birth day.

She comes just to say: I am all heart.
At the thirties of the century passed, away
Recluse, far, far away, faraway at Amherst
December tenth, she was born that day.