Quote

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

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
Time
Pet
Clover
Honey
Clovers
Concern
Pedigree
Garden
Dessert
Spring
Aristocracy
Food
Spiders
Animal
Insects
Doe
Bees

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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me.
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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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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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I imagine therefore I belong and am free.
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
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My business is circumference.
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Elysium is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await Felicity of doom.
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
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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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Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.
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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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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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