Quote

We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.

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
Rank
Uniforms
Angels
Snow
Angel
Trust
Plumed
Feet
Procession
Even
Angelic

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I dwell in possibilities .
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Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.
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Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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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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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.
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If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me.
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The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?
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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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To be alive is power existence in itself without a further function omnipotence.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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Prayer is the little implement through which men reach where presence is denied them.
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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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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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