The sun filtered through the treetops on a fresh summer day in 1860. The bustling life of a small town in Massachusetts greeted Walt Whitman’s eyes, sparking new ideas for a sequel to his recently published Leaves of Grass. Breathing in the fresh air, he straightened his favorite tattered hat and strolled confidently down the street to a local inn. Entering through a windowed door, Walt ran into his travel companion.
“Good day to you, Walt! I just got done talking to the bartender and it turns out there’s a young lass in town who writes as well. Apparently she’s only published a few poems, but the lads say she’s quite a looker!” The boisterous man nudged Walt encouragingly as he spoke.
Shaking his head and scruffy beard, Walt laughed and replied, “Of course you would immediately seek out women in this town, you old scoundrel. You’ll probably have us thrown out for being no more modest than immodest.”
Walt’s companion nodded with a wink and mounted the stairs to their rooms. Walt inquired about the young lady with the bartender and found her name to be Emily Dickinson.
“Emily.” He repeated, noting how the name flowed nicely off of his tongue. The bartender wiped a glass and went on to explain how she would be coming to the inn tonight to do her usual observing.
“She’s an introvert, you see. Only comes down from her home to watch people and write in a tiny leather book she brings. Doesn’t talk much either.” The bartender explained in his gruff accent. Walt simply nodded and went back outside to recline on the lawn until sunset.

The night came all too quickly, like a pouncing lion. Walt raised himself up from his spot on the grass beside the road and went to the inn door nervously. By now, it was bustling with a cacophony of drinking men, gentlemen playing chess in conversation, and ladies gossiping in groups near windows. Making his way across the room to the bar, Walt sat beside his travel companion, who was ordering another round for the group.
“I’m sure she will be here soon, bud.” His friend clapped him on the back reassuringly. The bustle of so much society in one place was beginning to grate on Walt’s nerves. As the hour elapsed, Walt stood to leave, thoroughly disappointed, just as the inn door swung open with a hopeful squeak. The bartender grasped Walt’s arm, causing his attention to be drawn to a young lady in a high collared dress entering quietly. As she seated herself in a darker corner, lit by a single wavering candle, Walt straightened his shirt collar and crossed through the chaos to meet her.
“Miss Dickinson?” Walt asked as he arrived at her table. Emily looked up from her writing and smiled in accordance to her name.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Whitman. I saw your picture in a newspaper my father was reading. You may call me Emily. What be your purpose in Massachusetts?” She replied calmly with blushing cheeks.
“I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence. My business here involves immersing myself in this generation’s society a bit more than I have. Besides meeting you of course.” Walt replied with a soft smile as he seated himself across from Emily. “Some of the people here tell me you’re quite a secluded person. Don’t you want to be outside in nature?
“I felt a funeral in my brain.” Emily said quietly, as she closed her book and let her gaze wander about the room. “And then a plank in reason broke. I enjoy nature, but society is my passion, at a distance, anyway. I feel there is something in me that has broken, so I prefer solitude.”
“I have also been in quiet solitude, but in nature. However, divine am I inside and out, in nature. Perhaps companionship would nip in the bud my growing conceit, Emily.”
“You are not conceited. After all, the soul selects her own society. What do you think of religion, my dear Mr. Whitman?
“I am a humanist, realist, and transcendentalist.” Walt answered confidently. “I am not ashamed of my views, for I believe in the flesh and the appetites. What about you, darling Emily?”
“The bible is an antique volume, written by faded men.” She spoke with a nonchalant shrug.
By now, Walt’s interest in the young lady was peaked finely. Smoothing his beard, he gazed at Emily’s beauty. Her dress was of a pale cream and her flowing hair was tied back in ringlets. Emily caught his gaze and leaning forward, she smiled.
“Tell the truth, but tell it slant, Mr. Whitman. I can see your eyes gleaming, or is it just this smoldering candle? Do you enjoy my company, as I have enjoyed yours?” She whispered as the crowd around them laughed or gossiped or drank.
“I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,” Walt replied slowly, giving much thought to his words, “Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green. I cannot be like that tree, Emily. Would you care to see more of each other? I believe both of us would benefit from companionship.”
Emily was silent for a moment, staring down at the knife-nicked table. The night was growing late and Walt’s companion was glancing over, intoxicated, from the bar. The women had gone to their rooms, or walked home with husbands on their arms. Walt’s heart pounded with every minute passing.
Suddenly raising her eyes, Emily nodded. “Yes, Mr. Whitman, I believe I agree with you. Stay in Massachusetts and I’m quite sure we will see much more of each other.”
The candle wavered as their voices drifted away in the night. The inn windows flickered with a more substantial light than before: the light of a newly discovered love.