Emily Dickinson

The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost —  The Summit is not given To Him who strives severe At middle of the Hill —  But He who has achieved the Top —  All — is the price of All —

"I hesitate which word to take, as I can take but few and each must be the chiefest, but recall that Earth's most graphic transaction is placed within a syllable, nay, even a gaze —"

I like a look of Agony, Because I know it's true —

The morns are meeker than they were - The nuts are getting brown - The berry’s cheek is plumper - The Rose is out of town. The Maple wears a gayer scarf - The field a scarlet gown - Lest I should be old fashioned I’ll put a trinket on.

Hope is a strange invention - A Patent of the Heart - In unremitting action Yet never wearing out -

"I pick up tufts of mignonette, and sweet alyssum for winter, dim as winter seems these red and gold, and ribbon days."

That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love;

"The Leaves are flying high away, and the Heart flies with them…"

The healed Heart shows its shallow scar With confidential moan —

"…you will find the blue hills…with the autumnal shadows silently sleeping on them, and there will be a glory lingering round the day, so you’ll know autumn has been here…"

"How swiftly summer has fled & what report has it borne to heaven of misspent time & wasted hours? Eternity only will answer. The ceaseless flight of the seasons is to me a very solemn thought, & yet Why do we not strive to make a better improvement of them?"

September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets – Crows – and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming – An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.

"I felt it sweet that you needed me — though but a simple shelter I will always last."

A Wounded Deer – leaps highest –

My Heart ran so to thee It would not wait for me

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant –

"I send you the book with pleasure, for it has given me happiness, and I love to have it busy, imparting delight to others."

The longest day that God appoints Will finish with the sun. Anguish can travel to its stake, And then it must return.

To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie – True Poems flee –

"I hope you have the power of hope . . ."