Some illsome swain / Doth plant the prickly thorn amid Love's bloom, / To sorrow turned!

Not too long ago, there was a YouTube of you two brawling. How did the musical collaboration happen?

Mrs. Fluent was nooked with their hostess in the corner of another, a retiring woman, remarkably pretty withal, as your ministers' wives generally are, and no wonder, since the ministers, if at all popular, usually have their pick among the young lambs — we mean the young ladies — of their flocks.

Dickinson's iconography of suffering, with its sexualized pleasure-pain, Catholicizes austere American Protestantism.