A wild short poem by Emily Dickinson
What breathless passion from anyone, let alone a 19th century poet who lived as a recluse! Wild Nights—Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile—the winds— To a heart in port— Done with the compass— Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden— Ah, the sea! Might I moor—Tonight—... Sign in to see full entry.