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

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To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.
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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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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.
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To shut your eyes is to travel.
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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -
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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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The Truth never flaunted a sign.
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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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My life closed twice before its close
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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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Not 'Revelation'-'tis that waits/ But our unfurnished eyes
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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I took one Draught of Life - I'll tell you what I paid - Precisely an existence - The market price, they said.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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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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