Quote

This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!

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
Side
Hesitated
Sides
Gained
Poor
Throw
Upon
Fail
Much
Victory
Failing
Poverty
Joy
Ventured

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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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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
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Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day -
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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still...nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.
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a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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How lucious lies the pea within the pod.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
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Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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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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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
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I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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