Quote

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!

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
Smile
Drunken
Joy
Pebbles
Feet
Wade
Least
Liquor
Break
Breaks
Used
Pool
Twas
Whole
Push
Pools
Grief
Pebble

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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth for His mercy endureth forever, with confiding revulsion.
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I have an appetite for silence.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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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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The Truth never flaunted a sign.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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Find ecstasy in life the mere sense of living is joy enough.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
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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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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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All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.
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Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day -
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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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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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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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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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