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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...

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
Afternoon
Hills
Hear
Bumblebee
Heaven
Squirrel
Nature
Squirrels
Eclipse
Hill
Bees

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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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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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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
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The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight - though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar pleasure.
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It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.
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To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.
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Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day -
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That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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Where thou art, that is home.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
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Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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