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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.

Emily Dickinson

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Emily Dickinson
Age: 55 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 10
Died: 1886
Died: May 15
Poet
Writer
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Ai-mi-li Ti-chin-sen
Emilia Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
Inspirational
Makes
Come
Never
Life
Emily
Sweet
Literature

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Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.
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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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For love is immortality.
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They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady
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By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted- Which Blossom in the dark.
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To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
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To possess is past the instant we achieve the joy, immortality contented, were anomaly.
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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away
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If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
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A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
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How lucious lies the pea within the pod.
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The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.
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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
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My life closed twice before its close
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I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.
Emily Dickinson
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Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
Emily Dickinson