Emily Dickinson Quotes
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A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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But a Book is only the Heart's Portrait- every Page a Pulse.
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We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.
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Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
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Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.
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Truth - is as old as God-.
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I know some lonely houses off the road A robber'd like the look of,-- Wooden barred, And windows hanging low
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An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the culprit,-Life!
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I took one Draught of Life -I'll tell you what I paid -Precisely an existence -The market price, they said.
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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf.
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They say that 'home is where the heart is.' I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.
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My business is circumference.
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Behold this little Bane – The Boon of all alive – As common as it is unknown The name of it is Love.
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I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves.
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Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
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The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little,-- And that's the skies!
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Superiority to Fate Is difficult to gain 'Tis not conferred of Any But possible to earn.
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Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-
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The Truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind.
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Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.