Slightly offended by the fact that my favorite Dickinson poem wasn't included in this collection, so I'm going to set it here:

In this short Life that only lasts an hour
How much - how little - is within our power

With that being said... Dickinson is just so wonderful. Every single line in this collection is imbued with such terrific and overflowing passion. It's just incredible to read about the beauty and cruelty of life through the lens of someone who was so wonderstruck by the world around her. Take, for example, Dickinson's incredible poem on books:

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.

This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

She's so unflinchingly in love with literature, with the act of creation and appreciation. It's incredible how effortlessly she captures the infinite joy of reading. Furthermore, Dickinson experiences and writes of joy and kindness with so much honesty and sincerity:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again
I shall not live in vain.

Or this excerpt from "If you were coming in the fall," which is so heartachingly beautiful and full to the brim with queer yearning:

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mind should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

Some of my favorite Dickinson poems are about loss:

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place

Being haunted by the loss of your loved ones, carrying them with you even after they are gone...

I never lost as much but twice,
And that was in the sod;
Twice I have stood a beggar
Before the door of God!

Angels, twice descending,
Reimbursed my store.
Burglar, banker, father,
I am poor once more!

I love how she describes the unfairness of loss. It feels as though something has been stolen from you, as though you have been cheated.

Their height in heaven comforts not,
Their glory nought to me,
‘T was best imperfect, as it was;
I’m finite, I can’t see.

Hearing about how much better a person is in the next life is doing means little to those of us in this one. I love that Dickinson describes herself as "finite," as though she doesn't contain the same capacity for grace and forgiveness that those in heaven must. She is trapped on Earth without her loved one and, selfishly, wishes that they were with her, all of the "imperfections" of a mortal existence included. I find it so comforting to read about a person who despises the platitudes offered to the grieving as much as I do.

They say that “time assuages,”—
Time never did assuage;
An actual suffering strengthens,
As sinews do with age.

In honor of Dickinson, my own poor attempt at imitating her style and wit:

I will not change; I refuse to grow —
If to do so means I must forget all I used to Know.
If the changing of the seasons is to be held dear,
Why must I be gripped by such terrible fear?