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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.

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
God
Spiritual
Always
Recluse
Think
Hermits
Thinking
Emily
Somewhat
Memorable
Everywhere

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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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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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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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Here is a little forest Whose leaf is ever green Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
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When I state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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Truth - is as old as God-.
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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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An altered look about the hills A Tyrian light the village fills A wider sunrise in the dawn A deeper twilight on the lawn A print of a vermilion foot A purple finger on the slope A flippant fly upon the pane A spider at his trade again An added strut in chanticleer A flower expected everywhere.
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer house than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior — for Doors.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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