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Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!

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
Ceilings
Housewife
Cobweb
Swings
Lain
Fearless
Indolent
Cobwebs
Daisies
Housework
Ceiling

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You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away -
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Good times are always mutual that is what makes good times.
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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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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To shut your eyes is to travel.
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Eternity' is there, We say, as of a station. Meanwhile, he is so near, He joins me in my Ramble? Divides abode with me? No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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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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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted- Which Blossom in the dark.
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They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady
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I dwell in possibilities .
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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The Pleading of the Summer - That other Prank - of Snow - That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels - know.
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We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.
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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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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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Forever is made up of nows.
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