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A Deed knocks first at Thought And then - it knocks at Will - That is the manufacturing spot.

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
Manufacturing
Deed
Spot
Spots
Deeds
Thought
Firsts
First
Knocks

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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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People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.
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His Cheek is his Biographer- As long as he can blush.
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Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me?
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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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Where thou art, that is home.
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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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I took one Draught of Life - I'll tell you what I paid - Precisely an existence - The market price, they said.
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Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.
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You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!
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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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After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.
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Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake.
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a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
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Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.
Emily Dickinson
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
Emily Dickinson