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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.

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
Impotent
Simplicity
Wisdom
Art
Nature

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God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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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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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
Emily Dickinson
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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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An altered look about the hills A Tyrian light the village fills A wider sunrise in the dawn A deeper twilight on the lawn A print of a vermilion foot A purple finger on the slope A flippant fly upon the pane A spider at his trade again An added strut in chanticleer A flower expected everywhere.
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There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
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The only secret people keep is immortality.
Emily Dickinson
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I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy I said: 'T will keep. I woke and chid my honest fingers,— The gem was gone And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.
Emily Dickinson
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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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It is easy to work when the soul is at play.
Emily Dickinson
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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
Emily Dickinson
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
Emily Dickinson
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You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight - though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar pleasure.
Emily Dickinson
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson