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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.

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
Frame
Spirit
Precious
Dust
Poverty
Grew
Knew
Robust
Poor
Drank
Words

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Home is the definition of God.
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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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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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Friends are nations in themselves.
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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.
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My business is circumference.
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Beauty is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.
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You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
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Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!
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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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A Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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To shut your eyes is to travel.
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Not 'Revelation'-'tis that waits/ But our unfurnished eyes
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Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.
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The Pleading of the Summer - That other Prank - of Snow - That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels - know.
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