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

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You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.
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Prayer is the little implement through which men reach where presence is denied them.
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A Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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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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Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
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The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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Existence has overpowered Books. Today I slew a Mushroom.
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My only sketch, profile, of Heaven is a large blue sky, and larger than the biggest I have seen in June - and in it are my friends - every one of them.
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I imagine therefore I belong and am free.
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My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
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