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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.

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
Hands
Spreading
Gather
Narrow
Paradise
Wide

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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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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
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I would paint a portrait which would bring the tears, had I canvas for it, and the scene should be -- solitude, and the figures -- solitude -- and the lights and shades, each a solitude.
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Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
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The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight - though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar pleasure.
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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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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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I tasted life.
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I dwell in possibilities .
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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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Where thou art, that is home.
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A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.
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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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