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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.

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
Near
Dear
Feet
Though
Always
Vary

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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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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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Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.
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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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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady
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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 Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men
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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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To possess is past the instant we achieve the joy, immortality contented, were anomaly.
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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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Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --
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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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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.
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Which Anguish was the utterest--then-- To perish, or to live?
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