Those who knew miss Dickinson
Were of one mind: she was no fun.
Her talk of death would get one down.
But Amherst was a party town.
And that strange woman dressed in white
Would never venture out at night.
She tended garden all alone.
She wrote as if in death’s time zone.
She watched her mother fade away.
She pressed dried flowers, hey, now, hey!
And when, at last, her life complete,
She went beneath that cold white sheet.
The rectangle where now we meet
Is plotted on Triangle Street.