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The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.

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
Power
Console
Sympathy
Precious
Attempt
Reach
Compassion
Within
Though
Corporeal

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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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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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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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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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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 lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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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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When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee. When a Lover is an Owner Different is he.
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I have an appetite for silence.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.
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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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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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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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