Emily Dickinson Quotes
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Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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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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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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... I have no letter from the dead, yet daily love them more.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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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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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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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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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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They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
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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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Forever is composed of nows.
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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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After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.
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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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It sounded as if the streets were running, And then the streets stood still.
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My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word.
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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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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell