Emily Dickinson

Dec. 10, 1830 - May 15, 1886


First Lines of Emily Dickinson

A drop fell on the apple-tree,A little road not made of man,A precious, mouldering pleasure 't isA something in a summer's day,A train went through a burial gate,A wounded deer leaps highest,Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?Alter? When the hills do.Angels in the early morningApparently with no surpriseAs children bid the guest good-night,As if some little Arctic flower,At last to be identified!Because I could not stop for Death,Belshazzar had a letter, --Come slowly, Eden!Death is a dialogue betweenDelayed till she had ceased to know,Departed to the judgment,Doubt me, my dim companion!Elysium is as far as toExcept to heaven, she is nought;Exultation is the goingGlee! The great storm is over!God permits industrious angelsHave you got a brook in your little heart,He ate and drank the precious words,How many times these low feet staggered,I asked no other thing,I cannot live with you,I died for beauty, but was scarceI had no time to hate, becauseI hide myself within my flower,I know some lonely houses off the roadI like a look of agony,I lost a world the other day.I never lost as much but twice,I never saw a moor,I reason, earth is short,I shall know why, when time is over,I taste a liquor never brewed,I think the hemlock likes to standI went to thank her,If I can stop one heart from breaking,If I shouldn't be aliveIf you were coming in the fall,I'll tell you how the sun rose, --I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs;I'm wife; I've finished that,It makes no difference abroad,It was too late for man,I've seen a dying eyeLike trains of cars on tracks of plushLook back on time with kindly eyes,Mine by the right of the white election!Much madness is divinest senseMy cocoon tightens, colors tease,My river runs to thee:New feet within my garden go,No rack can torture me,Not in this world to see his faceOf all the sounds despatched abroad,On this long storm the rainbow rose,One dignity delays for all,Our share of night to bear,Pain has an element of blank;Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower?Pink, small, and punctual,Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawnRead, sweet, how others strove,Safe in their alabaster chambers,She rose to his requirement, droppedShe went as quiet as the dewSleep is supposed to be,So bashful when I spied her,Some keep the Sabbath going to churchSome rainbow coming from the fair!Some things that fly there be, --Soul, wilt thou toss again?Success is counted sweetest'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy!'T was a long parting, but the time'T was later when the summer wentThat I did always love,That short, potential stirThe bee is not afraid of me,The brain within its grooveThe bustle in a houseThe butterfly's assumption-gown,The clouds their backs together laid,The daisy follows soft the sun,THE grass so little has to do, --The heart asks pleasure first,The last night that she lived,The morns are meeker than they were,The mountain sat upon the plainThe murmur of a beeThe pedigree of honeyThe sky is low, the clouds are mean,The soul selects her own society,The sun kept setting, setting still;There came a day at summer's fullThere is a flower that bees prefer,There's a certain slant of light,These are the days when birds come back.This is my letter to the world,This is the land the sunset washes,To fight aloud is very brave,To know just how he suffered would be dear;'Twas such a little, little boatTwo swimmers wrestled on the sparWhen I was small, a woman died.When night is almost done,Whether my bark went down at seaWithin my reach!You left me, sweet, two legacies, --
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