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
Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
God is indeed a jealous God. He cannot bear to see, that we had rather not with him, but with each other play.
Till the first friend dies, we think our ecstasy impersonal, but then discover that he was the cup from which we drank it, itself as yet unknown.
Life is the finest secret. So long as that remains, we must all whisper.
Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies
I would paint a portrait which would bring the tears, had I canvas for it, and the scene should be -- solitude, and the figures -- solitude -- and the lights and shades, each a solitude.
I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight - though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar pleasure.
Prayer is the little implement through which men reach; where presence is denied them.
You can stay young as long as you learn.
A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being's road, Eternity by term.
Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance be seen So gradual the Grace A pensive Custom it becomes Enlarging Loneliness. Antiquest felt at Noon When August burning low Arise this spectral Canticle Repose to typify Remit as yet no Grace No Furrow on the Glow Yet a Druidic Difference Enhances Nature now.