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We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.

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
Fate
Doors
Behinds
Behind
Jest
Death
Bolts
Going
Shut
Never
Following
Door

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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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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?
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The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
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The last of Summer is Delight - Deterred by Retrospect. 'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review - Enchantment's Syndicate. To meet it - nameless as it is - Without celestial Mail - Audacious as without a Knock To walk within the Veil.
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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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The only secret people keep is immortality.
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This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
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Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth
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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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For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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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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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away
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