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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.

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
Chance
Earned
Gambling
Productivity
Toil
Expensive
Luck
Fortune
Toiling
Smile
Emily

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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.
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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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My business is circumference.
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Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind--
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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The Brain is just the weight of God-- For--Heft them--Pound for Pound-- And they will differ--if they do-- As Syllable from Sound
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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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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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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Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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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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Fortune befriends the bold.
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I don't profess to be profound but I do lay claim to common sense.
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Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me?
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