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How lucious lies the pea within the pod.

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
Lying
Peas
Lies
Within

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To possess is past the instant we achieve the joy, immortality contented, were anomaly.
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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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A wounded deer leaps the highest.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
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Good times are always mutual that is what makes good times.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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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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I took one Draught of Life - I'll tell you what I paid - Precisely an existence - The market price, they said.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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I am one of the lingering bad ones, and so do I slink away, and pause, and ponder, and ponder, and pause, and do work without knowing why - not surely for this brief world, and more sure it is not for heaven - and I ask what this message of Christ means.
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God gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me.
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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
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I dwell in possibility.
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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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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
Emily Dickinson