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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!

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
Careful
Culprit
Fine
Stirs
Science
Emily
Take
Surgeons
Must
Underneath
Life
Knife
Knives
Doctors

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Love is like life-merely longer.
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The minister today preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those who behaved improperly - and somehow it scared me. He preached such an awful sermon I didn't think I should ever see you again until the Judgment Day. The subject of perdition seemed to please him somehow.
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There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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She died--this was the way she died And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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The Truth never flaunted a sign.
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I felt it shelter to speak to you.
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I fear a Man of frugal speech - I fear a Silent Man - Haranguer - I can overtake - Or Babbler - entertain - But He who weigheth - While the Rest - Expend their furthest pound - Of this Man - I am wary - I fear that He is Grand -
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By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted- Which Blossom in the dark.
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The only secret people keep is immortality.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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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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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.
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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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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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