A Death-Blow Is A Life-Blow To Some

A death-blow is a life-blow to some
Who, till they died, did not alive become;
Who, had they lived, had died, but when
They died, vitality begun.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, born on December 10, 1830, and died on May 15, 1886, was an American poet who is extensively known for her innovative and poignant use of language and form. Her work, largely unpublished and unknown during her lifetime, has since positioned her among the greatest American poets. Although she seldom left her home, her poetry delved deeply into themes of death, immortality, nature, and human consciousness. Dickinson's unique style continues to influence poets and readers today.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

To March.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

The Journey.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

Love's Humility.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

The Monument.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

English

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Death And Life.

Apparently with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A Word.

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Death.

Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to kill it,
But decoyed may be.

Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the knife,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything in life.

Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill,
Ring the tree and leave it, --
'T is the vermin's will.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

That Such Have Died Enables Us

That such have died enables us
The tranquiller to die;
That such have lived, certificate
For immortality.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

If I May Have It When It's Dead

If I may have it when it's dead
I will contented be;
If just as soon as breath is out
It shall belong to me,

Until they lock it in the grave,
'T is bliss I cannot weigh,
For though they lock thee in the grave,
Myself can hold the key.

Think of it, lover! I and thee
Permitted face to face to be;
After a life, a death we'll say, --
For death was that, and this is thee.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Death.

Death! that struck when I was most confiding.
In my certain faith of joy to be,
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity!

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride
But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
For the vacant nest and silent song,
Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;
Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!"

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,
Spring adorned the beau...

Emily Bronte