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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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
Antiques
Pleasure
Book
Wore
Think
Precious
Thinking
Dress
Dresses
Mouldering
Privilege
Antique
Meet
Quaint
Century
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Best Witchcraft is Geometry To the magician's mind - His ordinary acts are feats To thinking of mankind.
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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
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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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If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
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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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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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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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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer house than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior — for Doors.
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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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Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth
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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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