Emily Dickinson

A wounded deer leaps highest,
I've heard the hunter tell;
'Tis but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake read more

A wounded deer leaps highest,
I've heard the hunter tell;
'Tis but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.
The smitten rock that gushes,
The trampled steel that springs,,
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings
Mirth is mail of anguish,
In which its cautious arm
Lest anybody spy the blood
And, you're hurt exclaim.

I confess that I love him, I rejoice that I love him, I thank the maker of Heaven and Earth read more

I confess that I love him, I rejoice that I love him, I thank the maker of Heaven and Earth that gave him to me. The exultation floods me.

His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
read more

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

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

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can read more

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Into his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.