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266 books of Emily Dickenson

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Emily Dickinson (1830-­1886) was an American poet who wrote an incredible amount of poems. Having lived mostly as a recluse, it was only after her death that Dickinson gained popularity as one of America’s greatest poets. This version of Dickinson’s Complete Poems includes a table of contents.

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THE verses of Emily Dickinson belong emphatically to what Emerson long since called “the Poetry of the Portfolio, ”— something produced absolutely without the thought of publication, and solely by way of expression of the writer's own mind. Such verse must inevitably forfeit whatever advantage lies in the discipline of public criticism and the enforced conformity to accepted ways. On the other hand, it may often gain something through the habit of freedom and the unconventional utterance of daring thoughts. In the case of the present author, there was absolutely no choice in the matter; she must write thus, or not at all. A recluse by temperament and habit, literally spending years without setting her foot beyond the doorstep, and many more years during which her walks were strictly limited to her father's grounds, she habitually concealed her mind, like her person, from all but a very few friends; and it was with great difficulty that she was persuaded to print, during her . . .

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The eagerness with which the first volume of Emily Dickinson's poems has been read shows very clearly that all our alleged modern artificiality does not prevent a prompt appreciation of the qualities of directness and simplicity in approaching the greatest themes, — life and love and death. That “irresistible needle-­touch, ” as one of her best critics has called it, piercing at once the very core of a thought, has found a response as wide and sympathetic as it has been unexpected even to those who knew best her compelling power. This second volume, while open to the same criticism as to form with its predecessor, shows also the same shining beauties.

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[Authoritative Nook Edition]
The Complete Works Collection of Emily Dickinson's Complete and Unabridged Poetry
Nook NOOKBook Edition
"Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-­day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear!­"
"They shut me up in Prose –
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet –
Because they liked me "still" –
Still! Could themself have peeped –
And seen my Brain – go round –
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason – in the Pound –"
"A solemn thing – it was – I said –
A Woman – White – to be –
And wear – if God should count me fit –
Her blameless mystery –"
"Though the great Waters sleep,
That they are still the . . .

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Snow clung to the trees, the weight of it pulling the tree branches low to the ground. Clay Sommers supposed that it would have been pretty if he hadn’t been driving in it. It hadn’t been as bad when he had headed out earlier in the day to help an elderly client several kilometres away. The accumulation of snow had built up on his roof and the man was concerned that if the snow continued that...

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It didn’t take the townspeople in Wildwood long to start placing bets on how long Clay Sommers and Jade Millerton could get along. Word around town was that they had been bitter towards each other for too long to be able to stay civil with each other for more than a few weeks, maybe a month if they were lucky. Some were calling it an affair, others were calling it a break in the storm...

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This is a short erotic story. Adults only.

I had a loathing for numbers. No siree. Give me words, I was good with those. I could charm my way into Canada wearing a “I will fuck all the old men and take their money” sign. But maths, physics and chemistry that dealt with numbers was not my forte.

And I hated especially that the lines between alphabet and numerals have become blurred and with letters worming their way into equations making it more difficult for me. That was the whole reason I ended up being at the library at 2 am. Because I had to cram formulas and equations and all that shit in less than 8 hours. I never do all nighters; I rather sleep in my fucking bed than stay in some lonely ass library doing work. But I had to. I failed one test already, I was lucky I was getting a make up paper.

I was comfortably buried in piles of paper at the back of the library and I almost didn't notice someone was walking along the bookshelves to my right. What a loser, being in . . .

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Books of Emily Dickenson