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Here is a little forest Whose leaf is ever green Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
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
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Ever
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Frost
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Brighter
Whose
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Brother
Forest
Hear
Forests
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee. When a Lover is an Owner Different is he.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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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 is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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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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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
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Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still...nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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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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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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