Emily Dickinson Quotes
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Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
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If I can stop one heart from breaking…” Emily Dickinson If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.
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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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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Portrait The world spreads out on either side no farther than the heart is wide.
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It is essential to the sanity of mankind that each one should think the other crazy - a condition with which the cynicism of human nature so cordially complies, one could wish it were a concurrence upon a subject more noble.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.
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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.
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New feet within my garden go, New fingers stir the sod; A troubadour upon the elm Betrays the solitude.New children play upon the green, New weary sleep below; And still the pensive spring returns, And still the punctual snow!
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You don't have to be a house to be haunted.
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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 vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
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A sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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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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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.