The Emily Dickenson poem

[azurelunatic]

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

This describes my method of choosing friends quite well. I get to know people, and only those who pass the most stringent requirements get to become true, closest friends. I get to know many, be acquainted, friendly, friends with many, but...

My society numbers few.