Quote

There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.

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
Solitude
Polar
Sea
Admitted
Shall
Finite
Space
Societies
Death
Site
Soul
Infinity
Compared
Privacy
Profounder

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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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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...
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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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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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To be alive──is Power.
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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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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After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.
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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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