Category Emily Dickinson

Three times—we parted—Breath—and I— Three times—He would not go— But strove to stir the lifeless Fan The Waters—strove to stay. Three Times—the Billows tossed me up— Then caught me—like a Ball— Then made Blue faces in my face— And pushed…

Those who have been in the Grave the longest— Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way— Foot of the Bold did least attempt it— It—is the White Exploit— Once to achieve, annuls the…

Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas— Who stay upon the Wall In Everlasting Keepsake— Can Anybody tell? We trust—in places perfecter— Inheriting Delight Beyond our faint…

Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine— Still, my little Gypsy being I would far prefer, Still, my little sunburnt bosom To her Rosier, For, when Frosts, their…

Tho’ I get home how late—how late— So I get home – ’twill compensate— Better will be the Ecstasy That they have done expecting me— When Night—descending—dumb—and dark— They hear my unexpected knock— Transporting must the moment be— Brewed from…

This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond— Invisible, as Music— But positive, as Sound— It beckons, and it baffles— Philosophy—don’t know— And through a Riddle, at the last— Sagacity, must go— To guess it, puzzles scholars— To gain…

This was in the White of the Year— That—was in the Green— Drifts were as difficult then to think As Daisies now to be seen— Looking back is best that is left Or if it be—before— Retrospection is Prospect’s half,…

This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense From the familiar species That perished by the Door— We wonder it was not Ourselves Arrested it—before— Of Pictures, the Discloser— The Poet—it is…

This that would greet—an hour ago— Is quaintest Distance—now— Had it a Guest from Paradise— Nor glow, would it, nor bow— Had it a notice from the Noon Nor beam would it nor warm— Match me the Silver Reticence— Match…

This quiet dust was gentlemen and ladies And lads and girls; Was laughter and ability and sighing, And frocks and curls; This passive place a summer’s nimble mansion, Where bloom and bees Fulfilled their oriental circuit, Then ceased like these.