I first read this poem by Emily Dickinson when I read it at the beginning of the Frances Farmer biography Will There Really Be a Morning (Frances Farmer was an American film actress during the 1930s and 40s who was involuntarily committed to a mental hospital)
Will there really be a "Morning"? Is there such a thing as "Day"? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they? Has it feet like Water lilies? Has it feathers like a Bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard? Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor! Oh some Wise Men from the skies! Please to tell a little Pilgrim Where the place called "Morning" lies!
It’s short and to the point, and poignant too. By the time she died in 1886 Emily Dickinson had become almost a recluse and the breadth of her poems wasn’t discovered until after her death.