Emily Dickinson Quotes
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... I have no letter from the dead, yet daily love them more.
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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 soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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There is a Zone whose even Years No Solstice interrupt - Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon Whose perfect Seasons wait - Whose Summer set in Summer, till The Centuries of June And Centuries of August cease And Consciousness - is Noon.
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It sounded as if the streets were running, And then the streets stood still.
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They might not need me; but they might. I'll let my head be just in sight; a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.
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I argue thee that love is life. And life hath immortality.
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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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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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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.
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After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.
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My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word.
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Forever is composed of Nows 'Tis not a different time Except for Infiniteness And Latitude of Home.
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Forever is composed of nows.
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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!
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To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.
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Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.
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Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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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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It is finished, is never said of us.