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

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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.
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You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
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I fear a Man of frugal speech - I fear a Silent Man - Haranguer - I can overtake - Or Babbler - entertain - But He who weigheth - While the Rest - Expend their furthest pound - Of this Man - I am wary - I fear that He is Grand -
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A Word that Breathes Distinctly Has not the Power to Die
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Good times are always mutual that is what makes good times.
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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Forever is made up of nows.
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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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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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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -
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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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If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me.
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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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