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

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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-
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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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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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To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.
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The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all.
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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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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Home is the definition of God.
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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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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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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
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I dwell in possibilities .
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