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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.

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
Men
Cooking
Corn
Crows
Time
Fame
Shifting
Crumbs
Whose
Ironic
Fickle
Second
Culinary
Farmer
Food
Guests
Guest
Dies
Farmers
Crow
Upon
Table
Plate
Inspect
Past
Tables
Plates
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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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Eternity' is there, We say, as of a station. Meanwhile, he is so near, He joins me in my Ramble? Divides abode with me? No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.
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The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.
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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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I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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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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Saying nothing... sometimes says the most.
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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.
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To shut your eyes is to travel.
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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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I dwell in possibility.
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a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
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Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.
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