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You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.

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
Folds
Would
Winds
Flood
Floor
Cedar
Wind
Cedars
Drawer
Tell
Drawers
Cannot
Fold
Find

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This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
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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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Existence has overpowered Books. Today I slew a Mushroom.
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After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.
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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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Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
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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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Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.
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Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.
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The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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