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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.

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
Hurt
Living
Hurts

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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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My business is circumference.
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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -
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The Truth never flaunted a sign.
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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.
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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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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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The brain is wider than the sky.
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I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
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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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Friends are nations in themselves.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.
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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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Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies
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Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.
Emily Dickinson
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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