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If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves. You can gain more control over your life by paying closer attention to the little things.
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
Life
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Love is like life-merely longer.
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I dwell in possibilities .
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The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
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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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I tasted life.
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I dwell in possibility.
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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.
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Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.
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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed.
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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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An altered look about the hills A Tyrian light the village fills A wider sunrise in the dawn A deeper twilight on the lawn A print of a vermilion foot A purple finger on the slope A flippant fly upon the pane A spider at his trade again An added strut in chanticleer A flower expected everywhere.
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