I stumbled across this awesome poem by American poet Emily Dickinson this morning - and knowing little about her, had to google her story.

I love stories where incredibly gifted people, mostly shunned by society for their oddities, in private are creating great works of art or literature. When Emily died at 56 in the late 1800's, she'd had published a dozen poems, most of which were heavily edited to suit the style of the time. After her death, her sister uncovered another 1800 poems that Emily had written in the course of her life. It wasn't until 1955, almost 75 years after her death, she became recognized as a poet.

Amazing. Doesn't it just make you wonder what in the world is wrong with the world when we overlook what's right in front of our faces?

A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer's noon --
A depth -- an Azure -- a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --

Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --

The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed --

Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --

So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
Emily Dickinson

Today is such a summer's day as this.