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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!
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
Looks
Eyes
Sinks
Time
Eye
Doubtless
Nature
Calendars
Back
Kindly
Best
Softly
Look
Trembling
Human
West
Humans
Sun
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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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Other Courtesies have been - Other Courtesy may be - We commend ourselves to thee Paragon of Chivalry.
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Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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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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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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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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The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
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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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