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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.

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
Trying
Recollecting
Spare
Spares
Easier
Went
Dies
Death
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When I state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person.
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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
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Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide, But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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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
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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
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Where thou art, that is home.
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
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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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The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
Emily Dickinson
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The Service without Hope Is tenderest, I think-- ... There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until
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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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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
Emily Dickinson