Thomas Wentworth Higginson reported Dickinson’s comments about sweets in a letter to his wife: “‘People must have puddings’ this [was said] very dreamily, as if they were comets—so she makes them” (L342a) http://www.emilydickinsonmuseum.org/book/export/html/44
Once Emily had died, her sister found
The stash made up of Immortality,
Of life, and death, and God, and gravestone ground
All heaped together in formality
And quaintness, fey tangential thinking, love
And plants, and baking all preserved and true
In quiet fascicles. The tongues above
Each one were cloven, and their heat, see through,
Opaque, and clear at once were what she left
Behind, Infinity in pockets, wrapped
In Solitude by white-gloved hands, the heft
Of poetry by lonely fingers trapped.
The whole was only fragile paper, thread
And ink, and hidden passions crimped with dread.