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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious

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
Rambles
Reveries
Spacious
Reverie
Sweet
Hope

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I dwell in possibility.
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I tasted life.
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I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.
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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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A Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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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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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.
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Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.
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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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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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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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Speech is one symptom of affection and silence one the perfect communication is heard of none.
Emily Dickinson
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.
Emily Dickinson
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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---
Emily Dickinson
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I would paint a portrait which would bring the tears, had I canvas for it, and the scene should be -- solitude, and the figures -- solitude -- and the lights and shades, each a solitude.
Emily Dickinson
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The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
Emily Dickinson