Emily Dickinson, fully Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Judge tenderly of me.

Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --

Of 'shunning Men and Women' — they talk of Hallowed things, aloud — and embarrass my Dog — He and I dont object to them, if they'll exist their side. I think Carlo would please you — He is dumb, and brave — I think you would like the Chestnut Tree, I met in my walk. It hit my notice suddenly — and I thought the Skies were in Blossom —

Softened by Time's consummate plush, how sleek the woe appears that threatened childhood's citadel and undermined the years! Bisected now by bleaker griefs, we envy the despair that devastated childhood's realm, so easy to repair.

The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care.

Then I will not repine knowing that bird of mine though flown shall in a distant tree bright melody for me return.

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.

Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.

Whose fingers string the stalactite- who counts the Wampum of the night.

Lad of Athens, faithful be to thyself, and Mystery - all the rest is Perjury.

Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.

Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home, with a bobolink for a chorister, and an orchard for a dome.

The heroism we recite would be a daily thing, did not ourselves the cubits warp for fear to be a king.

Then, as horizons step, or noons report away, without the formula of sound, it passes, and we stay: a quality of loss affecting our content.

Those who are beloved cannot die, because love means immortality.

Unto my Books-so good to turn-Far ends of tired Days-It half endears the Abstinence-And Pain-is missed-in Praise-As Flavors-cheer Retarded Guests with Banquettings to be-so Spices-stimulate the time till my small Library-It may be Wilderness-without-Far feet of failing Men-But Holiday-excludes the night-And it is Bells-within-I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf-Their Countenances Kid Enamor-in Prospective-And satisfy-obtained-

Witchcraft was hung, in History, but History and I find all the Witchcraft that we need around us, every Day.

Lest Love should value less what loss would value more, had it the stricken privilege --- it cherishes before.

Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --

One need not be a chamber to be haunted; one need not be a house; the brain has corridors surpassing material place.

Soul, wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard hundreds have lost, indeed, but tens have won all. Angels' breathless ballot lingers to record thee; imps in eager caucus raffle for my soul.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies? How still the riddle lies!

Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.