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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
Remorse
Adequate
Institution
Heal
Institutions
Disease
Hell
Even

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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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I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.
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To be alive──is Power.
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Such is the force of Happiness-- The Least can lift a ton Assisted by its stimulus.
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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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You are out of the way of temptation and out of the way of the tempter - I didn't mean to make you wicked - but I was - and am - and shall be - and I was with you so much that I couldn't help contaminate.
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Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
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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 Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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Those who lift their hats shall see Nature as devout do God.
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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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I felt it shelter to speak to you.
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This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
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Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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