Emily Dickinson Quotes
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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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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.
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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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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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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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A sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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In this short life that only lasts ah hour how much-how little-is within our power.
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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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Forever is composed of Nows 'Tis not a different time Except for Infiniteness And Latitude of Home.
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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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I don't profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.
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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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I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity Nor had I time to love: but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.
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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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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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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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A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.
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Action is redemption.
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Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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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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After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.