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To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—

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
Never
Sky
Summer
Poetry
Though
Lying
True
Summertime
Nature
Flee
Book
Poems

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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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I felt it shelter to speak to you.
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A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.
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PRESENTIMENT is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
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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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This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
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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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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake.
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