Bollywood Actresses Fullywithout Clothes

emily dickinson

A Book
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

A Charm Invests A Face
A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.
But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes,and denies,
‘Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

A Narrow Fellow in he Grass
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,—did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child,and barefoot,
I more than once,at morn,
Have passed,I thought,a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,—
When,stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled,and was gone.
Several of nature’s people
I know,and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

A Thunderstorm
he wind begun to rock the grass
With threatening tunes and low,-
He flung a menace at the earth,
A menace at the sky.
he leaves unhooked themselves from trees
And started all abroad;
he dust did scoop itself like hands
And throw away the road.
he wagons quickened on the streets,
he thunder hurried slow;
he lightning showed a yellow beak,
And then a livid claw.
he birds put up the bars to nests,
he cattle fled to barns;
here came one drop of giant rain,
And then,as if the hands
hat held the dams had parted hold,
he waters wrecked the sky,
But overlooked my father’s house,
Just quartering a tree.

A wounded deer leap highest,
A wounded deer leaps highest,
I’ve heard the hunter tell;
’Tis but the ecstasy of death,
And then the brake is still.
The smitten rock that gushes,
The trampled steel that springs:
A cheek is always redder
Just where the hectic stings!
Mirth is mail of anguish,
In which its cautious arm
Lest anybody spy the blood
And,”you’re hurt”exclaim


Because I Could ot Stop for Death
ecause I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove,he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My 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 seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’tis centuries;but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’heads Were
Toward eternity.

Emily Dickinson