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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
Vary
Near
Dear
Feet
Though
Always

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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.
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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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Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind--
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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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A Deed knocks first at Thought And then - it knocks at Will - That is the manufacturing spot.
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Best Witchcraft is Geometry To the magician's mind - His ordinary acts are feats To thinking of mankind.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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I dwell in possibility.
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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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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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LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!
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Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.
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If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves. You can gain more control over your life by paying closer attention to the little things.
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To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
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All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.
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I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!
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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
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