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Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!

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
Days
Poets
Haze
Lord
Snow
Windy
Fall
Bear
November
Littles
Sing
Sunny
Little
Bears
Grant
Mind
Poet
Grants
Side
Besides
Sides
Autumn
Prosaic

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A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
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They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady
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I don't profess to be profound but I do lay claim to common sense.
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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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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The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all.
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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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A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.
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The world allured me & in an unguarded moment I listened to her siren voice. From that moment I seemed to lose interest in heavenly things. Friends reasoned with me & told me of the danger I was in. I felt my danger & was alarmed, but I had rambled too far to return & ever since my heart has been growing harder.
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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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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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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
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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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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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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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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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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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