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After receiving the smithings of conscience for a long time, I have at length succeeded in stifling the voice of that faithful monitor by a promise of a long letter to you; so leave everything and sit down prepared for a long siege in the shape of a bundle of nonsense from friend E.

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It seems more like smiling May crowned with flowers than cold, arctic February wading through snow drills. I have heard some sweet little birds sing but I fear we shall have more cold weather and their little bills will be frozen up before their songs are finished.

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She will then have learned all that we poor foot-travellers are toiling up the hill of knowledge to acquire. Wonderful Thought! Her horse has carried her along so swiftly that she has nearly gained the summit, and we are plodding along on foot after her.

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While I describe her I wish Imagination, who is ever present with you, to make a little picture of this self same young lady in your mind.

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You asked me in your last letter if Old Father Time wagged on in Amherst pretty much as ever. For my part, I see no particular change in his movements unless it be that he goes on a swifter pace than formerly, and that he wields his sickle more sternly than ever.

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As I just glanced at the clock and saw how smoothly the little hands glide over the surface, I could scarcely believe that those self-same little hands had eloped with so many of my precious moments since I received your affectionate letter and it was still harder for me to believe that I, who am always boasting of being so faithful a correspondent, should have been so guilty of negligence.

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It is as much use as faith without works, which is dead.

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How may things have we omitted to do which might have cheered a human heart, or whispered hope in the ear of the sorrowful, and how many things have we done over which the dark mantle of regret will ever fall!

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It seems as if nature had formed this spot with a distinct idea in view of its being a resting place for her children, where wearied and disappointed, they might stretch themselves beneath the spreading cypress, and close their eyes 'calmly as to a nights repose, or flowers at set of sun'.

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How swiftly summer has fled, and what report has it borne to heaven of misspent time and wasted hours ? Eternity will only answer.

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At first I had recourse to words, and a desperate battle was with those weapons waged for a few moments, between my brother and myself Finding words of no avail, I next resorted to tears.

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But many an hour has fled with it's report to heaven, and what has been it's tale of me ?

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'The deepest stream the stillest runs'

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But I think in the end I conquered, not a glorious victory, where you hear the rolling drum, but a kind of a helpless victory where triumph would have come of itself, faintest music, weary soldiers, not a waving flag or a long loud shout.

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Remember and care for me sometimes, and caste a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me and by not forgetting.

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sleeping the churchyard sleep.

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I don't think that there will be any sunshine or any singing birds in the Spring that's coming

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You are growing wiser than I am, and nipping in the bud fantasies, which I let blossom - perchance to bear no fruit, or if plucked, I may not find it bitter. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the see. I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and here the murmuring winds but oh I love the danger!

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Don't you think sometimes these brief imperfect meetings have a tale to tell - perhaps but for the sorrow which accompanies them, we should not be reminded of brevity and of change,, and should build the dwelling earthward whose site is in the skies-

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It is very remarkable that in so many years Sarah has changed so little, not that she has stood still, but has made such peaceful progress, her thoughts, though they are older, have all the charm of youth, have not yet lost their freshness, their innocence and peace; she seems pure in heart, so sunny and serene like some sweet lark or robin ever soaring and singing.

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Earth is short, but paradise is long, there must be many moments in an immortal day.

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I did want one more kiss, one sweet and sad goodbye, before you had flown away; perhaps my dear, it is well that I do without it' it might have added anguish to our long separation, or made the miles still longer which keep a friend away. I always try to lessenany disappointment that had I been gratified it had been sadder still, and I have from such suppositions at times considerable consolation'- ‘consolation upside down’ as I am pleased to call it.

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I'll give you the sunny corners and you mustn’t look at the shade.

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The above selections represent only the very smallest smaple of Emily's style, and I'd encourage you to read both the Poems and the Letters of Emily Dickinson and anything and everything Dickinson related that you can get your hands on. :)