Emily Dickinson

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

Fame is a bee.It has a song -It has a sting -Ah, too, it has a wing.

To be alive──is Power.

He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.

Look back on Time, with kindly eyes -He doubtless did his best -How softly sinks that trembling sunIn Human Nature's West -.

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!

The Poets light but Lamps-Themselves-go out-.

A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.