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I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way

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
Way
Plank
Stepped
Cautious
Caution
Slow

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a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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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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I tasted life.
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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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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
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When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth for His mercy endureth forever, with confiding revulsion.
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A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
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I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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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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There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
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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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Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake.
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The Service without Hope Is tenderest, I think-- ... There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until
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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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An altered look about the hills A Tyrian light the village fills A wider sunrise in the dawn A deeper twilight on the lawn A print of a vermilion foot A purple finger on the slope A flippant fly upon the pane A spider at his trade again An added strut in chanticleer A flower expected everywhere.
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I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.
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My only sketch, profile, of Heaven is a large blue sky, and larger than the biggest I have seen in June - and in it are my friends - every one of them.
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My business is circumference.
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