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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

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
Strike
Strikes
Escape
Trackless
Atheism
Slew
Slay
Tomb
Tombs
Arrows

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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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Which Anguish was the utterest--then-- To perish, or to live?
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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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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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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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To be alive──is Power.
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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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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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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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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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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It is finished, is never said of us
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Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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