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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -

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
Till
Identified
Gun
Owner
Away
Loaded
Life
Carried
Owners
Stood
Passed
Corners

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If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves. You can gain more control over your life by paying closer attention to the little things.
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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Saying nothing... sometimes says the most.
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Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.
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That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!
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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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For love is immortality.
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Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.
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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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