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.
I am very busy picking up stems and stamens as the hollyhocks leave their clothes around.
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.
This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing.
