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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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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
Philosopher
Crows
Assuming
Retrospect
Fun
Hints
Turn
Crow
Sear
Turns
Cricket
Dissembling
Makes
Breeze
Crickets
Without
September
Innuendo
Heart
Combination
Sears
More quotes by Emily Dickinson
Fortune befriends the bold.
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This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
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I felt it shelter to speak to you.
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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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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
Emily Dickinson
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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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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My only sketch, profile, of Heaven is a large blue sky, and larger than the biggest I have seen in June - and in it are my friends - every one of them.
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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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Spring is the Period Express from God.
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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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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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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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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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