Category Emily Dickinson

Too few the mornings be, Too scant the nights. No lodging can be had For the delights That come to earth to stay, But no apartment find And ride away.

Too happy Time dissolves itself And leaves no remnant by – ‘Tis Anguish not a Feather hath Or too much weight to fly –

Too scanty ’twas to die for you, The merest Greek could that. The living, Sweet, is costlier – I offer even that – The Dying, is a trifle, past, But living, this include The dying multifold – without The Respite…

Touch lightly Nature’s sweet Guitar Unless thou know’st the Tune Or every Bird will point at thee Because a Bard too soon –

Tried always and Condemned by thee Permit me this reprieve That dying I may earn the look For which I cease to live –

Trudging to Eden, looking backward, I met Somebody’s little Boy Asked him his name – He lisped me “Trotwood” – Lady, did He belong to thee? Would it comfort – to know I met him – And that He didn’t…

Trust adjust her “Peradventure” – Phantoms entered “and not you.”

Trusty as the stars Who quit their shining working Prompt as when I lit them In Genesis’ new house, Durable as dawn Whose antiquated blossom Makes a world’s suspense Perish and rejoice.

‘Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock Diversion from the Dying Theme To hear the children play But wrong the more That these could…

‘Twas fighting for his Life he was – That sort accomplish well – The Ordnance of Vitality Is frugal of it’s Ball. It aims once – kills once – — conquers once – There is no second War In that…