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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

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
Food
Emily
Literature
Fickle
Upon
Plate
Plates
Shifting
Idols
Cooking
Fame

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When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee. When a Lover is an Owner Different is he.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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Unable are the Loved to die For Love is Immortality, Nay, it is Deity - Unable they that love - to die For Love reforms Vitality Into Divinity.
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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Those who lift their hats shall see Nature as devout do God.
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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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Beauty is not caused. It is.
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I imagine therefore I belong and am free.
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