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
A soft Sea washed around the House A Sea of Summer Air And rose and fell the magic Planks That sailed without a care — For Captain was the Butterfly For Helmsman was the Bee And an entire universe For the delighted crew.
In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!
A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -
Remorse --is Memory --awake --/ Her Parties all astir --/ A Presence of Departed Acts --/ At window --and at Door --
Remember if you marry for beauty, thou bindest thyself all thy life for that which perchance, will neither last nor please thee one year: and when thou hast it, it will be to thee of no price at all.
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar - Requires sorest need.
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.
Narcotics cannot still the toothThat Nibbles at the soul
We never know where we go when we are going, We jest and shut the door; Fate - following behind us -bolts it, And we accost no more
We never know how high we are till we are called to rise; and then, if we are true to plan, our stature's touch the skies.
The abdication of belief makes the behavior small -- better an ignis fatuus than no illume at all.
Who has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above. God's residence is next to min, His furniture is love.
Our journey has advanced; / Our feet were almost come / To that odd fork in Being's road,/ Eternity by term.
Will there really be a morning?Is there such a thing as day?...Please to tell a little pilgrimWhere the place called morning lies!