The Possible’s slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
Emily Dickinson Quotes
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode, until we drive away.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all.
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church – I keep it, staying at Home – With a bobolink for a Chorister – And an Orchard, for a Dome.
Except to heaven, she is nought; Except for angels, lone; Except to some wide-wandering bee, A flower superfluous blown; Except for winds, provincial; Except by butterflies, Unnoticed as a single dew That on the acre lies. The smallest housewife in the grass, Yet take her from the lawn, And somebody has lost the face That […]
Where thou art, that, is Home.
Good Morning – Midnight – I’m coming Home – Day – got tired of Me – How could I – of Him?
Eden is that old-fashioned House, We dwell in every day, Without suspecting our abode, Until we drive away.
They are better than human beings, because they know but do not tell.
And then a Plank in reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge.
