Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet.
Noon - is the Hinge of Day-.
I cling to nowhere until I fall - the crash of Nothing.
God, keep me from what they call 'households,'
We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
I could not stop for death and he did not stop for me.
Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.
Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.
MY river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I ’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks,— Say, sea, Take me!
Hope. . . never stops at all.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still. . . I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose.
The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
How lucious lies the pea within the pod.
a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feetAnd uniforms of snow.
Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.