Emily Poems - Poems about Emily

Emily, let me ask you something The life that you needed. Why did you love a poor guy? Lives dead. Our children. Hmm You don’t cry. Your children are dead I am sad. Disappointed. Field my life A life, a poor existence, walk on and off Emily. Here is the question. Answer it. What did you want from a general worker? Hmm. You...

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Emily, the time is goodbye Loved you, walked in your land, the killed heart I loved you. I needed you, woman. A destroyed love The time is gone. Our lives are gone. Our children are Yes. You killed them. All of them are great. Hopes. Was all. I respect you, Emily. I loved you Your life Drop Drop My life This is nothing for you Just...

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We met where souls go to whisper— in the quiet halls of the Children’s Campus, Melbourne sun kissing the windows, and sorrow folding into silence. I was just a patient, a tangle of thoughts, a shadow of myself. She— she was the light. Holding a broken child like she held the sky— soft hands, steady heart. Compassion wasn’t a word in her— it was a presence. I never spoke...

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Faith is the thing with callow feet— That tiptoes on thin air— It keeps no calendar or creed— Yet finds me unaware. It does not knock—it does not plead— But settles in the soul— A hush, more firm than any church— A bell without a toll. It drinks the dew from shadowed grass— It sings beneath the snow— And when the sky forgets to speak— It’s...

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after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson Because I would not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. A wilted bouquet in one hand— a reminder of life's mortality. We began to walk—he knew no haste— side by side, as we always were. In silence, no sympathies were spoken, as he knew I often preferred. We passed the house...

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It may seem a cruel tragedy that Amherst’s greatest poet Emily Dickinson never got to marry though she burned ardently to be. And yet in Death (if you’ll allow) she did eventually get laid – not in a man’s bed but a pine box and (if you’ll allow) this paradox she still remains a chaste old maid. ...

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ive died in your dear wifes eyes tell me i never loved her hurt after the dancings done ive died in your dear wifes eyes and theyve been taken away tell me i never loved an angel hurt after the dancings done thugger enter the idiom corner unpainted, love irish b, low, c nuttin craned, exam, deliver the news leave all these younga brohtas bent kneckin on...

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She passed away upon a day Where silence lie in sullen vein Where whispered notions plant a seed Of all the words penned in belief Hoping a man would come to see A well lit road clear and free To find tranquility within a psalms To cry aloud a remembered song And through the ages to live again Her spirit arise Through lofty...

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a dishonest man steals identities - an honest man steels himself...

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free by a sacrifice - a sacrifice for free...

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They called me a coward, said my words would hide, Too scared to face the storm, I’d run and confide. My thoughts were shadows, secrets locked tight, In silence, I fought my own ing fight. They wanted thunder, loud as hell, To shout like lightning, break the spell. But my voice shook, a flickering flame, Afraid the truth would tarnish my name. They...

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Dear Emily, 'the Recluse of Amherst' In my university days, you burned in me As a dazzling flame of endless inspiration. As I sit to write to you, your soul in its depth I see And it speaks to me, still giving endless motivation. Your concise and crisp musings, penned years ago, Continue to light poetic sparks in my soul. Your...

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Dear Emily, In the quiet of Amherst, your words still bloom, "Hope is the thing with feathers," you penned in your room. Your verses, like the breeze, traverse time's vast sea, Yet, dear Emily, a suggestion from me. Your solitude crafted such delicate lines, But what if your thoughts had danced in the pines? Among the living, where laughter is heard, Would your...

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Emily, you stitched the world into small, precise syllables, tucking eternity into lines so brief, they might be mistaken for whispers. But in your whispers, there were earthquakes, the kind that only the soul could feel. You walked the garden paths of Amherst, where bees hummed their sermons and the wind brushed secrets against your ear. Did you know your words would fly...

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“Tell all the truth but tell it slant—” So you whispered, Emily, through shrouded lace, while your pen carved light into Amherst shadows. But truth, even slant, can cut, and not all knives find a hand to hone them. And Edgar, my storm-eyed specter, you swore the raven perched forevermore, yet wings were made to fold and unfurl. Did you fear that flight...

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