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I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.

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
Live
Trying
Hurts
Would
Choose
Hurt
Wonder
Dies
Rather
Whether

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Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
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You are out of the way of temptation and out of the way of the tempter - I didn't mean to make you wicked - but I was - and am - and shall be - and I was with you so much that I couldn't help contaminate.
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Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.
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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.
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I tasted life.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
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To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
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People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.
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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.
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You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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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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My business is circumference.
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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
Emily Dickinson