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

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September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
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Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your [broken] Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
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I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.
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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
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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 Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?
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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.
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What Soft--Cherubic Creatures-- These Gentlewomen are-- One would as soon assault a Plush-- Or violate a Star
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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The last of Summer is Delight - Deterred by Retrospect. 'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review - Enchantment's Syndicate. To meet it - nameless as it is - Without celestial Mail - Audacious as without a Knock To walk within the Veil.
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