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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

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
Bell
Bells
Memory
Strange
Memories
Knell
Jubilee

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I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way
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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
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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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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
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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.
Emily Dickinson
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Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still...nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.
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To be alive is power existence in itself without a further function omnipotence.
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Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies
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LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
Emily Dickinson
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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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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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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
Emily Dickinson
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Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed.
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
Emily Dickinson
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
Emily Dickinson