It’s 1887.

Melville is 68.  R.L. Stevenson, 37.  Robert Frost turns 13. Mark Twain is 52 and Walt Whitman, 68.

Emily Dickinson died a year ago. She was unknown, unpublished, almost unread by anyone. Her letter to the world wouldn’t be published for another three years.

My River

by Emily Dickinson

 

My river runs to thee.

Blue sea, wilt thou welcome me?


My river awaits reply.


Oh! sea, look graciously.



I’ll fetch thee brooks


from spotted nooks.


Say, sea,

Take me!

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