Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet.
When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth "for His mercy endureth forever," with confiding revulsion.
I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way
THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
To travel far, there is no better ship than a book.
A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.
This World is not Conclusion. A Sequel stands beyond- Invisible, as Music- But positive, as Sound.
I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labour, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.
The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.
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.
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane
I tasted life.
There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Hope is a strange invention - A Patent of the Heart - In unremitting action Yet never wearing out
To be alive is power; existence in itself; without a further function; omnipotence.
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.