Emily Dickinson Quotes
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I have a brother and sister; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind.
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I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute. And many hurt; But what of that?I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that?I reason that in heaven Somehow, it will be even, Some new equation given; But what of that?
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Fortune befriends the bold.
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I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -The Stillness in the RoomWas like the Stillness in the Air -Between the Heaves of Storm -
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Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term.Our pace took sudden awe, Our feet reluctant led. Before were cities, but between, The forest of the dead.Retreat was out of hope,- Behind, a sealed route, Eternity’s white flag before, And God at every gate.
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If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves. You can gain more control over your life by paying closer attention to the little things.
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Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed.
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The face we choose to miss, Be it but for a day- As absent as a hundred years When it has rode away.
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
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We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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The sweets of Pillage can be known To no one but the Thief, Compassion for Integrity Is his divinest Grief.
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What fortitude the Soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming Foot- The opening of a Door.
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If your Nerve, deny you - Go above your Nerve
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Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim; Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!
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Prayer is the little implement through which men reach; where presence is denied them.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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My Faith is larger than the Hills— So when the Hills decay— My Faith must take the Purple Wheel To show the Sun the way— 'Tis first He steps upon the Vane— And then — upon the Hill— And then abroad the World He go To do His Golden Will— And if His Yellow feet should miss— The Bird would not arise— The Flowers would slumber on their Stems— No Bells have Paradise— How dare I, therefore, stint a faith On which so vast depends— Lest Firmament should fail for me— The Rivet in the Bands
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It ’s such a little thing to weep, So short a thing to sigh; And yet by trades the size of these We men and women die!
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To Whom the Mornings stand for Nights,What must the Midnights - be!
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I must go in, the fog is rising.
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LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.