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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

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
Makes
Aims
Forgot
Dawn
Aim
Allowed
Atheism
Impel
Ones
Astral
Forget
Forgets

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A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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Speech is one symptom of affection and silence one the perfect communication is heard of none.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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The Service without Hope Is tenderest, I think-- ... There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until
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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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The minister today preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those who behaved improperly - and somehow it scared me. He preached such an awful sermon I didn't think I should ever see you again until the Judgment Day. The subject of perdition seemed to please him somehow.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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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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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
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You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.
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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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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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