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

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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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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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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
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Eternity' is there, We say, as of a station. Meanwhile, he is so near, He joins me in my Ramble? Divides abode with me? No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.
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My life closed twice before its close
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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They might not need me but they might. I'll let my head be just in sight a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.
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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away
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Speech is one symptom of affection and silence one the perfect communication is heard of none.
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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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The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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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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Beauty is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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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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Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
Emily Dickinson