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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.

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
Door
Dreams
Doors
Rich
Dower
Hours
Fling
Poor
Purple
Dream
Subtle
Make
Hour

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Where thou art, that is home.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
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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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'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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Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth
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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.
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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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I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
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Beauty crowds me till I die. Beauty, mercy have on me! Yet if I expire to-day Let it be in sight of thee!
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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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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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Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day -
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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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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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