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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.

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
Bread
Street
Urchin
Sing
Starve
Paint
Unnoticed
Streets
Sad
Dream
Till
Every
Affection
Like
Sadness

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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
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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 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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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
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I fear a Man of frugal speech - I fear a Silent Man - Haranguer - I can overtake - Or Babbler - entertain - But He who weigheth - While the Rest - Expend their furthest pound - Of this Man - I am wary - I fear that He is Grand -
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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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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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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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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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It is finished, is never said of us
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It is easy to work when the soul is at play.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
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That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
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