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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!

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
Autumn
Bear
Bears
Lord
Mind
Windy
Sunny
Grant
Grants

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It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
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I have an appetite for silence.
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Fortune befriends the bold.
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This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
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Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!
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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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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
Emily Dickinson
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Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed.
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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
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I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way
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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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Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
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She died--this was the way she died And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
Emily Dickinson
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You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
Emily Dickinson
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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.
Emily Dickinson