Emily Dickinson Quotes
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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
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Until you have loved, you cannot become yourself.
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Best Witchcraft is Geometry To the magician's mind - His ordinary acts are feats To thinking of mankind.
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To be alive is power; existence in itself; without a further function; omnipotence.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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Each that we lose takes a part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.
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I'll tell you how the Sun rose.
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Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.
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Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
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Hope is a thing with feathers.
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My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -In Corners - till a DayThe Owner passed - identified -And carried Me away -And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -And now We hunt the Doe -And every time I speak for Him -The Mountains straight reply -
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The older I grow the more do I love spring and spring flowers. Is it so with you?
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These are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.
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I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You'll know it by the rows of stars around it's forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats. Oh! Find it, sir, for me!
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To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I They may take the trifle Termed mortality!
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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Expectation is contentment - Gain satiety.
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The truth dazzles gradually, or else the world would be blind.
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I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me
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Till I loved I never lived.
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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.
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The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.