Did you know that Emily Dickinson wrote an autobiography?
Neither did she!
Scroll down see a recently discovered autobiographical poem.
She wrote every word of it, whether or not she meant to.
Scroll further down to see a link to an amazing lost (also recently discovered) Masterpiece of 19th century American art!
This 1854 oil painting is one of the precious few images of this World Famous Poet known to exist, and it is truly magnificent!
Do You Love Emily Dickinson?
You've come to the right place.
His Cheek Is His Biographer
by Emily Dickinson
Found by Judee Shipman
Composed of first lines from the verses of Emily Dickinson
The first Day that I was a Life
The Clouds their Backs together laid
An awful Tempest mashed the air —
The Flake the Wind exasperate
A curious Cloud surprised the Sky
I had no Cause to be awake
’Twas just this time, last year, I died.
Time’s wily Chargers will not wait
The Sun kept stooping — stooping — low!
As far from pity, as complaint
On this long storm the Rainbow rose
Our little Kinsman — after Rain
My Reward for Being, was This.
My Maker — let me be
I think to Live — may be a Bliss
The earth has many keys.
There is a solitude of space
Advance is Life’s condition
The Life that tied too tight escapes
The Chemical conviction
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
How well I knew Her not
One Life of so much Consequence!
I found the words to every thought
Bees are Black with Gilt Surcingles
Pigmy seraphs — gone astray
A wild Blue sky abreast of Winds
Absent Place — an April Day
I think the Root of the Wind is Water
Two swimmers wrestled in the spar
The parasol is the umbrella’s daughter
Touch lightly Nature’s sweet Guitar
A Word dropped careless on a Page
A transport one cannot contain
If I can stop one Heart from breaking
The Road to Paradise is plain
Expectation — is Contentment
Exhiliration is the Breeze
Experiment escorts us last
Estranged from Beauty — none can be
Many a phrase has the English language
All the letters I can write
One Joy of so much anguish
’Tis Anguish grander than Delight
One Sister have I in our house
I showed her Heights she never saw
Eden is that old-fashioned House
Circumference thou Bride of Awe
To see her is a Picture
The Heart has many Doors
To own a Susan of my own
I cannot want it more
Could that sweet Darkness where they dwell
That I did always love
Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
Once more, my now bewildered Dove
Who saw no Sunrise cannot say
The first Day’s Night had come
The Sun went down — no Man looked on
The Trees like Tassels — hit — and swung
If she had been the Mistletoe
In Winter in my Room
If What we could — were what we would
Be Mine the Doom
I taste a liquor never brewed
A little Madness in the Spring
For largest Woman’s Hearth I knew
I asked no other thing
What I see not, I better see
When Night is almost done
When the Astronomer stops seeking
Nature assigns the Sun
I started Early — Took my Dog
The Mountain sat upon the Plain
This — is the land — the Sunset washes
This is a Blossom of the Brain
New feet within my garden go
Why should we hurry — why indeed?
I cannot buy it — ’tis not sold
The Murmur of the Bee
The Bat is dun, with wrinkled Wings
The Spider holds a Silver Ball
The Bird her punctual music brings
I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl
A full fed Rose on meals of Tint
The Hills in Purple syllables
Frequently the woods are pink —
Delight — becomes pictorial
My Eye is fuller than my vase
My Faith is larger than the hills
My Heart upon a little Plate
My first well Day — since many ill
I watched her face to see which way
Did We abolish Frost
Where bells no more affright the morn
If those I loved were lost
It troubled me as once I was
The Merchant of the Picturesque
If Nature smiles — the Mother must
Just Once! Oh least Request!
I know of people in the Grave
Quite empty, quite at rest
I Came to buy a smile — today
I am alive — I guess
We do not know the time we lose
Oh, honey of an hour
The duties of the Wind are few
To be alive — is Power
'Tis customary as we part
When we have ceased to care
This dirty — little — Heart
This Consciousness that is aware
Of so divine a Loss
All overgrown by cunning moss
When One has given up One's life
'Twas here my summer paused
When I was small, a Woman died
The only Ghost I ever saw
The Sunset stopped on Cottages
The Road was lit with Moon and star
'Twas comfort in her Dying Room
The Lassitudes of Contemplation
She went as quiet as the Dew
She rose as high as His Occasion
She dealt her pretty words like Blades
We grow accustomed to the Dark
We shun because we prize her Face
Like Men and Women Shadows walk
Lightly stepped a yellow star
Unfulfilled to Observation
Those final Creatures — who they are
Tomorrow — whose location
I heard as if I had no Ear
An altered look about the hills
Is it too late to touch you, Dear?
The Sun kept setting — setting — still
I felt a Funeral in my Brain
Two Travellers perishing in Snow
The Frost of Death was on the Pane
Where Roses would not dare to go
Although I put away this life
As Children bid the Guest Good Night
Because I could not stop for Death
The Day grew small, surrounded tight
We don’t cry — Tim and I
We talked as Girls do
At last, to be identified!
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Emily Dickinson Emily Dickinson
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