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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
Always
Recluse
Think
Hermits
Thinking
Emily
Somewhat
Memorable
Everywhere
God
Spiritual

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Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
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Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!
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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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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
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Other Courtesies have been - Other Courtesy may be - We commend ourselves to thee Paragon of Chivalry.
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I have an appetite for silence.
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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
Emily Dickinson
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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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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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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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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Home is the definition of God.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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The only secret people keep is immortality.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
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