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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
Waiting
Talk
Party
Homesickness
Eternity

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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
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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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Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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How lucious lies the pea within the pod.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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It is easy to work when the soul is at play.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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I dwell in possibilities .
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
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What Soft--Cherubic Creatures-- These Gentlewomen are-- One would as soon assault a Plush-- Or violate a Star
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My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide, But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.
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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.
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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted- Which Blossom in the dark.
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