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A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away

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
Gray
Bars
Evening
Away
Flock
Flocks
Gently

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Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved - the site of it by architect could not again be proved.
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All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.
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The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.
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LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!
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I dwell in possiblities.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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Other Courtesies have been - Other Courtesy may be - We commend ourselves to thee Paragon of Chivalry.
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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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Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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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 wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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Friends are nations in themselves.
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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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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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The Crime, from us, is hidden, [though] he is presumed to know.
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