She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun. Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied, Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.
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Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put awayMy 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 seemedA swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the dayI first surmised the horses' headsWere toward eternity.
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Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lostmemories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreamsplay when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the constant sea of trial and when all is done, do we not all yearn for ships to carry us home?
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Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.
All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.
Did Bach ever eatpancakes at midnight?
I rouse Emily to our guests, as she finishes off our fifteenth snowman by setting the head atop its torso. She stands limp at my direction, pointing out the coming shadows and I cannot help but hear a muffled sigh as she decapitates her latest creation with a single push of her hand.
I steal one glance over my shoulder as soon as we are far from the foreboding luminance of the neon glow, and it is there that my stomach leaps into my throat. Squatting just shy of the light and partially concealed by the shade of an alley is a sinister silhouette beneath a crimson cowl, beaming a demonic smile which spans from cheek to swollen cheek.
No debt Her eyes lapse into a stare. No debt someday when all thedreams are gonediscovered for when will that be, Samuel? Three times andthen declines forever.
Heed that the Rue du Bourreau is my domain, and I its malicious sovereign.
I'm nobody! Who are you?Are you nobody, too?Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!They'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody!How public, like a frogTo tell your name the livelong dayTo an admiring bog!
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After all, when a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence.
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Tell all the truth but tell it slant
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Why else do we write and write except to move our readers?
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Emily Dickinson, in my opinion, is the perfect (although admittedly slightly cliche) poet for lonely fat girls.
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She leaves my side and heads deeper intothe apartment singing, if the spirit tries to hide, its temple far away acopper for those they ask, a diamond for those who stay.
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