Quote

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!

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
Remember
Pray
May
Praying
Done
Gave
Heart
Thoughts
Forget
Lagging
Tell
Lest
Night
Haste
Light
Warmth

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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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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.
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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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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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Friends are nations in themselves.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!
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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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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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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...
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... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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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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