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

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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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An altered look about the hills A Tyrian light the village fills A wider sunrise in the dawn A deeper twilight on the lawn A print of a vermilion foot A purple finger on the slope A flippant fly upon the pane A spider at his trade again An added strut in chanticleer A flower expected everywhere.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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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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The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all.
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For love is immortality.
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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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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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For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
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We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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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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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.
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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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