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You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.

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
Sea
Consciousness
Pain
Left
Time
Capacious
Boundaries
Eternity

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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away
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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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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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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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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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Such is the force of Happiness-- The Least can lift a ton Assisted by its stimulus.
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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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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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'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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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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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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