Quote

When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth for His mercy endureth forever, with confiding revulsion.

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
Mind
Myth
Think
Rewards
Thinking
Mercy
Atheism
Confiding
Effort
Revulsion
Forever
Lone
Turns
Bleak
Live
Reward

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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
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Existence has overpowered Books. Today I slew a Mushroom.
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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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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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I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way
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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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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
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Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.
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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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... 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.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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