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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
Frequently
Unhappiness
Rose
Morning
Way
Jubilee
Surpasses
Woe
Utter

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Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day -
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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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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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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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The Pleading of the Summer - That other Prank - of Snow - That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels - know.
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You are out of the way of temptation and out of the way of the tempter - I didn't mean to make you wicked - but I was - and am - and shall be - and I was with you so much that I couldn't help contaminate.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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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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Where thou art, that is home.
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Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all.
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I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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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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