Quote

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.

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
Never
Sea
Chart
Saws
Emily
Heaven
Visited
Faith
Spokes
Given
Spoke
Moor
Certain
Spot
Heather
Looks
Spots
Heathers
Must
Wave
Moors

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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady
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Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
Emily Dickinson
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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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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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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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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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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
Emily Dickinson
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
Emily Dickinson
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Good times are always mutual that is what makes good times.
Emily Dickinson