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
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn; Men eat of it and die.
Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
To possess is past the instant; we achieve the joy, immortality contented, were anomaly.
Pain - has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun - or if there were a time when it was not - It has no Future - but itself - Its Infinite contain Its Past - enlightened to perceive New Periods - of Pain.
The Things that never can come back, are several- Childhood-some forms of Hope-the Dead- Though Joys-like Men-may sometimes make a Journey- And still abide-.
The Past is such a curious Creature To look her in the Face A Transport may receipt us Or a Disgrace-.
The past is not a package one can lay away.
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.
To whom the mornings are like nights, What must the midnights be!
Who has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above. God's residence is next to min, His furniture is love.
Will there really be a morning?Is there such a thing as day?...Please to tell a little pilgrimWhere the place called morning lies!