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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell

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
Hell
Even
Remorse
Adequate
Institution
Heal
Institutions
Disease

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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
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The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.
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I could not stop for death and he did not stop for me.
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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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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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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
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Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide, But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.
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Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth
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The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
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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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Such is the force of Happiness-- The Least can lift a ton Assisted by its stimulus.
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
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... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.
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Find ecstasy in life the mere sense of living is joy enough.
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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
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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 have an appetite for silence.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
Emily Dickinson