Sara Teasdales Perspective Of Emily Dickinson Poem by James McLain

She lived behind a veil of breath, unseen,
A whisper folded close, like prayer in lace,
Her soul a lantern flickering in green,
Where lilies lean, held fast by silent grace.

With quiet hands, she stitched her secret hymns,
Each line a psalm, both fierce and shy and small,
A web of light spun thin along the rims
Of life's unspoken, echoing its call.

She wove the world in words of sigh and fire,
A lace of stars, of sorrow, and of faith,
Of death's sharp thrill, of life's dim, soft desire,
And danced alone upon that fragile wraith.

Oh, never was there one who knew her well,
Yet all who read her lines fall under spell.
She left no children, only whispered rhyme,
The lines she bore into the arms of time.

Though cold the earth that holds her clay and bone,
Her heart still blooms in ink, her fire sewn.