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.
If your Nerve, deny you — Go above your Nerve — He can lean against the Grave, If he fear to swerve — That’s a steady posture — Never any bend Held of those Brass arms — Best Giant made — If your Soul seesaw — Lift the Flesh door — The Poltroon wants Oxygen — Nothing more –
It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year. — — — is still with the sister who put her child in an ice nest last Monday forenoon. The redoubtable God! I notice where Death has been introduced, he frequently calls, making it desirable to forestall his advances.
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