Emily Dickinson lived a solitary life in the mid-1800s, communicating through letters and spending her time writing poetry. Her poems experimented with a style that was beyond her time and she was hardly recognized for it. In reading her work, there is a simplicity to her many (often short poems) that is easy to embrace at first but difficult to really evaluate and get a hold everything that’s there. They are poems that demand re-reading.
Emily penned around 1,800 poems in her lifetime. There were poems about liquor, there were poems about ecstasy, and of course, there were many, many poems about death. I think this poem falls somewhere in-between, weighing a balance between the ecstasy and joy of life with the inevitable sadness that levels it all out—but of course, there is probably more to it than that.