Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
Emily Elizabeth Dickinsonwas an American poet. Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts. Although part of a prominent family with strong ties to its community, Dickinson lived much of her life highly introverted. After studying at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she briefly attended the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Considered an eccentric by locals, she developed a noted penchant for white clothing and became known for her reluctance to...
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth10 December 1830
CityAmherst, MA
Hope is a strange invention - A Patent of the Heart - In unremitting action Yet never wearing out
Each that we lose takes a part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.
Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.
The last of Summer is Delight - Deterred by Retrospect. 'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review - Enchantment's Syndicate. To meet it - nameless as it is - Without celestial Mail - Audacious as without a Knock To walk within the Veil.
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.
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?
Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-
My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them!
I like a look of Agony, because I know it's true - men do not sham Convulsion, nor simulate, a Throe
Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid - as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.
To possess is past the instant; we achieve the joy, immortality contented, were anomaly.
To be alive is power; existence in itself; without a further function; omnipotence.