Category Emily Dickinson

Wonder – is not precisely knowing And not precisely knowing not – A beautiful but bleak condition He has not lived who has not felt – Suspense – is his maturer Sister – Whether Adult Delight is Pain Or of…

It’s little Ether Hood Doth sit upon it’s Head – The millinery supple Of the sagacious God – Till when it slip away A nothing at a time – And Dandelion’s Drama Expires in a stem.

It would not know if it were spurned, This gallant little flower – How therefore safe to be a flower If one would tamper there. To enter, it would not aspire – But may it not despair That it is…

It was not Saint – it was too large – Nor Snow – it was too small – It only held itself aloof Like something spiritual –

It was a quiet Way – He asked if I was His – I made no answer of the Tongue, But answer of the Eyes – And then He bore me high Before this mortal noise With swiftness as of…

It was a quiet seeming Day – There was no harm in earth or sky – Till with the setting sun There strayed an accidental Red A strolling Hue, one would have said To westward of the Town – But…

It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own –

It sounded as if the streets were running And then – the streets stood still – Eclipse – was all ——–we could see at the Window And Awe – was all we could feel. By and by – the boldest…

It rises – passes – on our South Inscribes a simple Noon – Cajoles a Moment with the Spires And infinite is gone –

It is the Meek that Valor wear Too mighty for the Bold.