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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

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
Embarrass
Bees
Flowers
Lovely
Regret
Flower
Make

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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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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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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.
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Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.
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You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
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It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.
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His Cheek is his Biographer- As long as he can blush.
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I have an appetite for silence.
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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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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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To be alive──is Power.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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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
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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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