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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.

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
Eye
Sense
Much
Divinest
Discerning
Emily
Insanity
Madness

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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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Beauty crowds me till I die. Beauty, mercy have on me! Yet if I expire to-day Let it be in sight of thee!
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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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A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.
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If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
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To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
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Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind--
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
Emily Dickinson
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Forever is made up of nows.
Emily Dickinson
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
Emily Dickinson
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
Emily Dickinson
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
Emily Dickinson
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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.
Emily Dickinson