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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides

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
Rides
Occasionally
Narrow
Fellow
Grass
Fellows

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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...
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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away
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Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!
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How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn't care about careers, And exigencies never fears Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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My business is circumference.
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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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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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Love is like life-merely longer.
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I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
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To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.
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They might not need me but they might. I'll let my head be just in sight a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.
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She died--this was the way she died And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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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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Home is the definition of God.
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I took one Draught of Life - I'll tell you what I paid - Precisely an existence - The market price, they said.
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