Oh phosphorescence. Now there’s a word to lift your hat to... To find that phosphorescence, that light within — is the genius behind poetry.
William LuceMots clés words poetry light emily-dickinson
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Le monde est oval. On apprend l’eau par la soif, et la terre par le voyage en mer; la passion par les affres, et la paix par les récits de guerre; l’amour par la mort, et les oiseaux par l’hiver.
Emily DickinsonMots clés emily-dickinson
Emily Dickinson , in my opinion, is the perfect (although admittedly slightly cliche) poet for lonely fat girls.
Suzanne SuppleeMots clés emily-dickinson lonely artichoke fat-girls
She died--this was the way she died;
And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
Mots clés death emily-dickinson rebirth arias
After all, when a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence.
Thomas Wentworth HigginsonMots clés poetry emily-dickinson
And somebody has lost the face
That made existence home!
Mots clés emily-dickinson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My Mind was going numb –
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
Mots clés pain elegy emily-dickinson brain depression funeral
open me carefully
Emily DickinsonMots clés emily-dickinson letter correspondence
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Mots clés death emily-dickinson
How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not "the thing with feathers." The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.
Woody AllenMots clés emily-dickinson feathers specialists zurich
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