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
My Faith is larger than the Hills— So when the Hills decay— My Faith must take the Purple Wheel To show the Sun the way— 'Tis first He steps upon the Vane— And then — upon the Hill— And then abroad the World He go To do His Golden Will— And if His Yellow feet should miss— The Bird would not arise— The Flowers would slumber on their Stems— No Bells have Paradise— How dare I, therefore, stint a faith On which so vast depends— Lest Firmament should fail for me— The Rivet in the Bands
A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
Forever — is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months— And Years — exhale in Years...
To fight aloud, is very brave— But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Wo— Who win, and nations do not see— Who fall — and none observe — Whose dying eyes, no Country Regards with patriot love— We trust, in plumed procession For such, the Angels go— Rank after Rank, with even feet— And Uniforms of Snow.
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted— One need not be a House— The Brain — has Corridors — surpassing Material Place— Far safer, of a Midnight — meeting External Ghost— Than an Interior — Confronting— That cooler — Host. Far safer, through an Abbey — gallop— The Stones a'chase— Than Moonless — One's A'self encounter— In lonesome place— Ourself — behind ourself — Concealed— Should startle — most....
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
He deposes Doom Who hath suffered him.
No ladder needs the bird but skies To situate its wings, Nor any leaders grim baton Arraigns it as it sings.
Beauty crowds me till I die. Beauty, mercy have on me! Yet if I expire to-day Let it be in sight of thee!
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
There is a Zone whose even Years No Solstice interrupt - Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon Whose perfect Seasons wait - Whose Summer set in Summer, till The Centuries of June And Centuries of August cease And Consciousness - is Noon.
A Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men
The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.