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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!

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
Might
Nights
Moors
Done
Tonight
Chart
Heart
Luxury
Rowing
Life
Wild
Futile
Thee
Eden
Sea
Port
Wind
Winds
Night
Compass
Moor

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Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me?
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Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.
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Spring is the Period Express from God.
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I dwell in possibility.
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The last of Summer is Delight - Deterred by Retrospect. 'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review - Enchantment's Syndicate. To meet it - nameless as it is - Without celestial Mail - Audacious as without a Knock To walk within the Veil.
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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
Emily Dickinson
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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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The Service without Hope Is tenderest, I think-- ... There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until
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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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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
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It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.
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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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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there's a word to lift your hat to... to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that's the genius behind poetry.
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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
Emily Dickinson