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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.

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
Beauty
Something
Cause
Causes

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Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
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Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.
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My business is circumference.
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I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
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Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -
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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.
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To be alive──is Power.
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I dwell in possibilities .
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Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
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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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Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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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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