Emily Dickinson

I must go in, the fog is rising.

I must go in, the fog is rising.

The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
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The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops read more

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.

His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
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His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!

Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away

Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away