Quote

To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.

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
Wells
Owned
Might
Affliction
Well
Claim
Never
Claims
Seem
Lose
Bereavement
Loses
Presumption
Seems
Eccentric

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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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His Cheek is his Biographer- As long as he can blush.
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I held a jewel in my fingers And went to sleep. The day was warm, and winds were prosy I said: 'T will keep. I woke and chid my honest fingers,— The gem was gone And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.
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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 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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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
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It is finished, is never said of us
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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Existence has overpowered Books. Today I slew a Mushroom.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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I dwell in possibilities .
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me?
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