Quote

To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.

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
Hear
Tunes
Hand
Warmth
Hands
Near
Innocent
Shining
Intemperance
Picture
June
Sun
Affliction
Friend
Tune

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I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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When I state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person.
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It is easy to work when the soul is at play.
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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.
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Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies
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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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I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.
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September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.
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It is finished, is never said of us
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