“I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.” — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
“Sweet hour, blessed hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss,… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend. — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
“Belshazzar had a letter,— He never had but one; Belshazzar’s correspondent Concluded and begun In that immortal copy The conscience of us… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me, the simple news that nature told, with tender majesty. Her… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
“Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a "Diver" - Her brow is fit for thrones But I have… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
“Oh Susie, I often think that I will try to tell you how very dear you are, and how I'm watching for… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
“I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share Image
A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period - When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
“Could you tell me how to grow--or is it unconveyed--like Melody--or Witchcraft?” — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
It might be lonelier Without the Loneliness - I’m so accustomed to my Fate - Perhaps the Other - Peace - Would interrupt the… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
“Inebriate of Air — am I — And Debauchee of Dew — Reeling — thro endless summer days — From Inns of Molten Blue —” — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all. — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
“He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
I SEE thee better in the dark, I do not need a light. The love of thee a prism be Excelling violet. I see… — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
“Whose fingers string the stalactite- Who counts the Wampum of the night” — Emily Dickinson Copy Share
