Category Emily Dickinson

Of Nature I shall have enough When I have entered these Entitled to a Bumble bee’s Familiarities.

Of Life to own — From Life to draw — But never tough the reservoir —

Of God we ask one favor, That we may be forgiven — For what, he is presumed to know — The Crime, from us, is hidden — Immured the whole of Life Within a magic Prison We reprimand the Happiness…

Of Glory not a Beam is left But her Eternal House — The Asterisk is for the Dead, The Living, for the Stars —

Of Death I try to think like this — The Well in which they lay us Is but the Likeness of the Brook That menaced not to slay us, But to invite by that Dismay Which is the Zest of…

Obtaining but our own Extent In whatsoever Realm — ‘Twas Christ’s own personal Expanse That bore him from the Tomb —

Now I lay thee down to Sleep — I pray the Lord thy Dust to keep — And if thou live before thou wake — I pray the Lord thy Soul to make —

Now I knew I lost her — Not that she was gone — But Remoteness travelled On her Face and Tongue. Alien, though adjoining As a Foreign Race — Traversed she though pausing Latitudeless Place. Elements Unaltered — Universe the…

Not with a Club, the Heart is broken Nor with a Stone — A Whip so small you could not see it I’ve known To lash the Magic Creature Till it fell, Yet that Whip’s Name Too noble then to…

Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength — Impregnability inheres As much through Consciousness Of faith of others in itself As Pyramidal Nerve Behind the most unconscious clock What skilful Pointers move —