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It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.

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
Anvil
Anvils
Hammer
Hammers
Better

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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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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.
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Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat
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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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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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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
Emily Dickinson
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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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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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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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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
Emily Dickinson
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She died--this was the way she died And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
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I would paint a portrait which would bring the tears, had I canvas for it, and the scene should be -- solitude, and the figures -- solitude -- and the lights and shades, each a solitude.
Emily Dickinson
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
Emily Dickinson
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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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I dwell in possibility.
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I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.
Emily Dickinson
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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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