American poet (1830-1886)
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Virtually unknown in her lifetime, Dickinson has come to be regarded as one of the greatest American poets of the 19th century. Although she wrote (at latest count) 1789 poems, only a few of them were published in her lifetime, all anonymously, and some perhaps without her knowledge.
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It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness — I'm so accustomed to my Fate — Perhaps the Other — Peace — Would interrupt the Dark — And crowd the little Room — Too scant — by Cubits — to contain
The Sacrament — of Him — I am not used to Hope — It might intrude upon — Its sweet parade — blaspheme the place — Ordained to Suffering — It might be easier
To fail — with Land in Sight — Than gain — My Blue Peninsula — To perish — of Delight — F535 (1863) J405
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A Clock Stopped — Not The Mantel's
A clock stopped — not the mantel's
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.
An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.
It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No
Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.
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