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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!

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

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To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.
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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 friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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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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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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I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
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Beauty is not caused. It is.
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Fortune befriends the bold.
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Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
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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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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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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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My life closed twice before its close
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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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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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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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