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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.

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
Surpasses
Woe
Utter
Frequently
Unhappiness
Rose
Morning
Way
Jubilee

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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 WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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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 things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
Emily Dickinson
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-
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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.
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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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The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
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Elysium is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await Felicity of doom.
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The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Find ecstasy in life the mere sense of living is joy enough.
Emily Dickinson