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I dwell in possiblities.

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
Dwell

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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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Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth
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That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
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My life closed twice before its close
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I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.
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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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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
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I dwell in possibility.
Emily Dickinson
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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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The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?
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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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Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind--
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Beauty is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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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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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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Find ecstasy in life the mere sense of living is joy enough.
Emily Dickinson
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The Brain is just the weight of God-- For--Heft them--Pound for Pound-- And they will differ--if they do-- As Syllable from Sound
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Speech is one symptom of affection and silence one the perfect communication is heard of none.
Emily Dickinson