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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.

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
Bayonets
Dead
War
Nothing
Bayonet
Contrition

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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
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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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I have an appetite for silence.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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I would paint a portrait which would bring the tears, had I canvas for it, and the scene should be -- solitude, and the figures -- solitude -- and the lights and shades, each a solitude.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.
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You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.
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Such is the force of Happiness-- The Least can lift a ton Assisted by its stimulus.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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I hope you're very careful working, eating and drinking when the heat is so great--there are temptations there which at home you are free from--beware the juicy fruits, and the cooling ades, and cordials, and do not eat ice-cream, it is so very dangerous.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Speech is one symptom of affection and silence one the perfect communication is heard of none.
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