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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.

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
Turn
Lying
Turns
Freedom
Doorknob
Lies

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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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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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Faith is a fine invention When gentlemen can see, But microscopes are prudent In an emergency.
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
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To be alive──is Power.
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A Word that Breathes Distinctly Has not the Power to Die
Emily Dickinson
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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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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
Emily Dickinson
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Prosperity Whose sources are interior. As soon Adversity A diamond overtake.
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A Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men
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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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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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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
Emily Dickinson
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The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
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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.
Emily Dickinson
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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
Emily Dickinson
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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
Emily Dickinson
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
Emily Dickinson