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To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.

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
Charge
Brave
Sorrow
Cavalry
Fight
Aloud
Within
Bosom
Fighting
Bosoms
Woe
Bravery

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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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My life closed twice before its close
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A Deed knocks first at Thought And then - it knocks at Will - That is the manufacturing spot.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee. When a Lover is an Owner Different is he.
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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
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Fortune befriends the bold.
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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...
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Beauty is not caused. It is.
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Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.
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Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
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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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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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