Quote

I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy I said: 'T will keep. I woke and chid my honest fingers,— The gem was gone And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.

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
Went
Remembrance
Sleep
Jewels
Gone
Winds
Keep
Held
Fingers
Amethyst
Warm
Jewel
Wind
Gems
Honest
Woke

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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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For love is immortality.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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Other Courtesies have been - Other Courtesy may be - We commend ourselves to thee Paragon of Chivalry.
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The Pleading of the Summer - That other Prank - of Snow - That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels - know.
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My business is circumference.
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
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To shut your eyes is to travel.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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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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Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.
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