Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet.
Friends are nations in themselves.
Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I'd rather suit my foot Than save my Boot -- For yet to buy another Pair is possible, At any store -- But Bliss, is sold just once. The Patent lost None buy it any more --
A little madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown, Who ponders this tremendous scene-- This whole experiment in green, As if it were his own!
A Clock stopped-- Not the Mantel's-- Geneva's farthest skill Can't put the puppet bowing-- That just now dangled still
The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
Then, as horizons step, Or noons report away,Without the formula of sound, It passes, and we stay:A quality of loss Affecting our content.
It sounded as if the streets were running, And then the streets stood still.
November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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.
Take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy, And I am richer then than all my Fellow Men-.
A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -
The truth dazzles gradually, or else the world would be blind.
Superiority to Fate Is difficult to gain 'Tis not conferred of Any But possible to earn.
The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
Forever is composed of Nows 'Tis not a different time Except for Infiniteness And Latitude of Home
His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
Heavenly Father - take to thee The supreme iniquity Fashioned by thy candid Hand In a moment contraband - Though to trust us seem to us More respectful - We are Dust - We apologize to thee For thine own Duplicity.
I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
The dearest ones of time, the strongest friends of the soul--BOOKS.