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Wonder is not precisely knowing.

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
Precisely
Wonder
Knowing

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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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A Deed knocks first at Thought And then - it knocks at Will - That is the manufacturing spot.
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
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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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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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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.
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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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God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
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The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
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