Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson was an American poet who, despite the fact that less than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime, is widely considered one of the most original and influential poets of the 19th century.
Dickinson was born to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.
Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime.The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often use slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation.Many of her poems deal with themes of death and immortality, two recurring topics in letters to her friends.
Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content.
A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable reviews and skepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.
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“Chi conta le conchiglie nella notteper vedere che non ne manchi nessuna?”
“Soul, wilt thou toss again?By just such a hazardHundreds have lost, indeed,But tens have won all.Angels' breathless ballotLingers to record thee;Imps in eager caucusRaffle for my soul.”
“Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!”
“My dying tutor told me that he would like to live till I had been a poet, but Death was much of Mob as I could master-then-And when far afterward-a sudden light on Orchards, or a new fashion in the wind troubled my attention- I felt a palsy, here- the Verses just relieve-" (174)”
“Narcotics cannot still the ToothThat nibbles at the soul --”
“El para siempre está hecho de muchos «ahoras.”
“Kein Schiff trägt uns besser in ferne Länder, als ein Buch.”
“Love is Immortality.”
“I started early, took my dog,And visited the sea;The mermaids in the basementCame out to look at me”
“Das Für immer besteht aus vielen jetzt”
“Die geliebt werden, können nicht sterben, denn Liebe bedeutet Unsterblichkeit. ”
“The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.”
“We dream — it is good we are dreaming —It would hurt us — were we awake —But since it is playing — kill us,And we are playing — shriek —What harm? Men die — externally —It is a truth — of Blood —But we — are dying in Drama —And Drama — is never dead —Cautious — We jar each other —And either — open the eyes —Lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake —And the livid SurpriseCool us to Shafts of Granite —With just an Age — and Name —And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian —It's prudenter — to dream —”
“I HIDE myself within my flowerThat wearing on your breast,You, unsuspecting, wear me too—And angels know the rest.I hide myself within my flower,That, fading from your vase,You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness...”
“I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”
“Forever is composed of nows.Das 'Für immer' besteht aus vielen 'jetzt'.”
“I believe in possibility.”
“Los que son amados no pueden morir,Porque amor significa inmortalidad.”
“open me carefully”
“I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through – And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thoughtMy Mind was going numb – And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space – began to toll,As all the Heavens were a Bell,And Being, but an Ear,And I, and Silence, some strange RaceWrecked, solitary, here – And then a Plank in Reason, broke,And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge,And Finished knowing – then –”
“And somebody has lost the faceThat made existence home!”
“I see thee better in the darkI do not need a light.”
“Non esiste un vascello veloce come un libro per portarci in terre lontane.”
“Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.”
“The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.”
“It's all i have to bring todaythis and my heart besidethis and my heart and all the fields and all the meadows widebe sure to countshould i forgetsomeone the sum could tellthis and my heart and all the beeswhich in the clovers dwell”
“A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think.”
“The only secret people keep is immortality.”
“To be alive──is Power.”
“Nature is what we know / Yet have not art to say / So impotent our wisdom is / To her simplicity.”
“Bless God, he went as soldiers,His musket on his breast—Grant God, he charge the bravestOf all the martial blest!Please God, might I behold himIn epauletted white—I should not fear the foe then—I should not fear the fight!”
“A great hope fellYou heard no noiseThe ruin was within.”
“You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.”
“To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—”
“Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.”
“Could you tell me how to grow--or is it unconveyed--like Melody--or Witchcraft?”
“I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious”
“She died--this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.”
“People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.”
“We do not play on Graves—Because there isn't Room—Besides—it isn't even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We're fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as farAs Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how farIt is—Occasionally— ”
“He fumbles at your spiritAs players at the keysBefore they drop full music on;He stuns you by degrees.Prepares your brittle substanceFor the ethereal blowby fainter hammers, further heard,Then nearer, then so slowYour breath has time to straightenYour brain to bubble cool,-Deals one imperial thunderboltThat scalps your naked soul.”
“I'm a Nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? There's a pair of us- don't tell!”
“The Soul selects her own Society.”
“There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a tranceSo memory can step around, across, upon it.”
“One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —”
“Hunger is a wayOf standing outside windowsThe entering takes away.”
“За да направиш прерия е нужно- пчела и детелина и една мечта голяма.Ако мечтата е достатъчно голяма ,може и без пчела и детелина! Емили Дикинсън”
“Wild Nights—Wild Nights!Were I with theeWild Nights should beOur luxury!Futile—the winds—To a heart in port—Done with the compass—Done with the chart!Rowing in Eden—Ah, the sea!Might I but moor— Tonight—In thee!”
“The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.”
“Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I've heard it in the chilliest landAnd on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.”