Maxioms by Emily Dickinson
How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of read more
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality read more
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
