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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
Bayonet
Contrition
Bayonets
Dead
War
Nothing

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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
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We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.
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The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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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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A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
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I have an appetite for silence.
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Home is the definition of God.
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I could not stop for death and he did not stop for me.
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
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Unable are the Loved to die For Love is Immortality, Nay, it is Deity - Unable they that love - to die For Love reforms Vitality Into Divinity.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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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?
Emily Dickinson