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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.

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
Plans
Confided
Never
Volcano
Men
Volcanoes
Precarious
Pink
Keeps
Plan
Reticent
Projects
Slumbering

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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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Prayer is the little implement through which men reach where presence is denied them.
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My life closed twice before its close
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After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.
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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 Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
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Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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The minister today preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those who behaved improperly - and somehow it scared me. He preached such an awful sermon I didn't think I should ever see you again until the Judgment Day. The subject of perdition seemed to please him somehow.
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The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
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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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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!
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I tasted life.
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
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I dwell in possibility.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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