Famously known as a recluse her whole life, Dickinson did find time to fall in love a few times, relationships experienced mostly through letters. During the civil war her poetry took on a new maturity, and although she died never publishing many of her works, she knew she would after her death become one of America's finest major poets.
Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.