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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.

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
Surprise
Unique
Capacity
Surprising
God

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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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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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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer house than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior — for Doors.
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I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.
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Where thou art, that is home.
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
Emily Dickinson
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The brain is wider than the sky.
Emily Dickinson
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You are out of the way of temptation and out of the way of the tempter - I didn't mean to make you wicked - but I was - and am - and shall be - and I was with you so much that I couldn't help contaminate.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
Emily Dickinson
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If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now
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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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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
Emily Dickinson