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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.

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
Death
Cannot
Soever
Doe
Conclude
Suspense
Broads
Broad
Insecurity
Increase

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I dwell in possiblities.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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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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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way
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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 only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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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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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
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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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Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!
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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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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved - the site of it by architect could not again be proved.
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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-.
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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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