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
To whom the mornings are like nights, What must the midnights be!
Will there really be a morning?Is there such a thing as day?...Please to tell a little pilgrimWhere the place called morning lies!
They address an Eclipse every morning, whom they call their "Father."
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity
I was almost persuaded to be a Christian. I thought I never again could be thoughtless and worldly. But I soon forgot my morning prayer or else it was irksome to me. One by one my old habits returned and I cared less for religion than ever.
Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.
Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
When I sound the fairy call, gather here in silent meeiing,Chin to knee on the orchard wall, cooled with dew and cherries eating.Merry, merry, take a cherry, mine are sounder, mine are rounder,Mine are sweeter for the eater, when the dews fall, and you'll be fairies all.
Anger as soon as fed is dead - 'Tis starving that makes it fat
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- / The Truth must dazzle gradually /Or every man be blind.