Quote

March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.

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
Coming
Expectation
Boys
Betray
Joy
Month
Prognostication
Persons
March
Sham
Firsts
Expectations
Betrays
First
Spring
Firmness
Trying
Months
Pompous
Things
Becoming
Springtime

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Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
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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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Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.
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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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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!
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Prayer is the little implement through which men reach where presence is denied them.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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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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Hope is a thing with feathers
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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
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