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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.

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
Homesickness
Eternity
Waiting
Talk
Party

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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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Where thou art, that is home.
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A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
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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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My business is circumference.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
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Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.
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To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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Elysium is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await Felicity of doom.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat
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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!
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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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To be alive──is Power.
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