Emily Dickinson
Poet
1830-12-10 – 1886-05-15
Emily Dickinson was an American poet whose compressed language and formal experimentation transformed lyric poetry. Although only a small number of her poems were published during her lifetime, her posthumous work made her one of the most influential poets in American literature. Her poetry explores mortality, faith, nature, and interior life.
Books by Emily Dickinson
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The Poems of Emily Dickinson Volume II
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Letters of Emily Dickinson
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Quotes by Emily Dickinson
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I felt a Cleaving in my Mind— As if my Brain had split— I tried to match it— Seam by Seam— But could not make it fit.The thought behind, I strove to joinUnto the thought before— But Sequence ravelled out of SoundLike Balls— upon a Floor.
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Not with a club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone –A Whip so small you could not see itI've known
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Split the Lark— and you'll find the Music, Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled.
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and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground – because I am afraid –
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If I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain.
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I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through – And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thoughtMy Mind was going numb – And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space – began to toll,As all the Heavens were a Bell,And Being, but an Ear,And I, and Silence, some strange RaceWrecked, solitary, here – And then a Plank in Reason, broke,And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge,And Finished knowing – then –
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Water is taught by thirst;Land, by the oceans passed;Transport, by throe;Peace, by its battles told;Love, by memorial mould;Birds, by the snow.
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Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire,He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her.Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door,To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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The Soul selects her own Society.
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Not "Revelation" – tis – that waitsBut our unfurnished eyes –
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Beauty is not caused. It is.
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So bashful when I spied her!So pretty ― so ashamed!So hidden in her leafletsLest anybody find ―So breathless till I passed her ―So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her struggling, blushing,Her simple haunts beyond!For whom I robbed the Dingle ―For whom betrayed the Dell ―Many, will doubtless ask me,But I shall never tell!
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Bless God, he went as soldiers,His musket on his breast— Grant God, he charge the bravestOf all the martial blest!Please God, might I behold himIn epauletted white— I should not fear the foe then— I should not fear the fight!
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This is my letter to the worldThat never wrote to me
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A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
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We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor fear to be a king.
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't isTo meet an antique bookIn just the dress his century wore;A privilege, I think,His venerable hand to take,And warming in our own,A passage back, or two, to makeTo times when he was young.His quaint opinions to inspect,His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind,The literature of old...
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I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
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Look back on Time, with kindly eyes -He doubtless did his best -How softly sinks that trembling sunIn Human Nature's West -
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