Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet.
Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!
Behold this little Bane- The Boon of all alive- As common as it is unknown The name of it is Love.
Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -
Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
A light exists in Spring Not present in the year at any other period When March is scarcely here.
I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.