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My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?

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
Many
Love

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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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Where thou art, that is home.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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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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To be alive is power existence in itself without a further function omnipotence.
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Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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Existence has overpowered Books. Today I slew a Mushroom.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth for His mercy endureth forever, with confiding revulsion.
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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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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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Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.
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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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Prayer is the little implement through which men reach where presence is denied them.
Emily Dickinson