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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane

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
Pardon
Sanity
Insane
World

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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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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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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.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
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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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When everything that ticked has stopped, and space stares, all around, or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, repeal the beating ground.
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Beauty is not caused. It is.
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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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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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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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Forever is made up of nows.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
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The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.
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A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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