Quote

... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.

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
Began
Creak
Across
Toll
Lead
Tolls
Heard
Lift
Space
Boots
Soul
Lifts
Depression
Boxes

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The world allured me & in an unguarded moment I listened to her siren voice. From that moment I seemed to lose interest in heavenly things. Friends reasoned with me & told me of the danger I was in. I felt my danger & was alarmed, but I had rambled too far to return & ever since my heart has been growing harder.
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Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.
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For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
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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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Those who lift their hats shall see Nature as devout do God.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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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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Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --
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Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.
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Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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A Word that Breathes Distinctly Has not the Power to Die
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