Emily Dickinson Quotes

Mine Enemy is growing old --I have at last Revenge --The Palate of the Hate departs --If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits --It is a faded Meat --Anger as soon as fed is dead --'Tis starving makes it fat

Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me - The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee A clover anytime to him Is aristocracy.

Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music, Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled.

And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze,Without my right of frost, Death's privilege?

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through – And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thoughtMy Mind was going numb – And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space – began to toll,As all the Heavens were a Bell,And Being, but an Ear,And I, and Silence, some strange RaceWrecked, solitary, here – And then a Plank in Reason, broke,And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge,And Finished knowing – then –

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without words and never stops at all.

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.

THE MOON was but a chin of goldtA night or two ago,tAnd now she turns her perfect facetUpon the world below.tHer forehead is of amplest blond;t Her cheek like beryl stone;tHer eye unto the summer dewtThe likest I have known.tHer lips of amber never part;tBut what must be the smileUpon her friend she could bestowtWere such her silver will!tAnd what a privilege to betBut the remotest star!tFor certainly her way might passt Beside your twinkling door.tHer bonnet is the firmament,tThe universe her shoe,tThe stars the trinkets at her belt,tHer dimities of blue.

If I can stop one heart from breaking I shall not live in vain.

I did not reach thee,tBut my feet slip nearer every day;tThree Rivers and a Hill to cross,tOne Desert and a Sea—tI shall not count the journey onet When I am telling thee.tTwo deserts—but the year is coldtSo that will help the sand—tOne desert crossed, the second onetWill feel as cool as land.t Sahara is too little pricetTo pay for thy Right hand!tThe sea comes last. Step merry, feet!tSo short have we to gotTo play together we are prone,t But we must labor now,tThe last shall be the lightest loadtThat we have had to draw.tThe Sun goes crooked—that is night—tBefore he makes the bendt We must have passed the middle sea,tAlmost we wish the endtWere further off—too great it seemstSo near the Whole to stand.tWe step like plush, we stand like snow—t The waters murmur now,tThree rivers and the hill are passed,tTwo deserts and the sea!tNow Death usurps my premiumtAnd gets the look at Thee.

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness. I feel more reverence as I grow for these mute creatures whose suspense or transport may surpass my own.

Success is counted sweetest by those ne'er succeed.

I wonder if it hurts to live,And if they have to try,And whether, could they choose between,They would not rather die.

There's a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

Beauty is not caused. It is.

THERE is no frigate like a book/ To take us lands away...

I died for beauty but was scarceAdjusted in the tomb,When one who died for truth was lainIn an adjoining room.He questioned softly why I failed?"For beauty," I replied."And I for truth, the two are one;We brethren are," he said.And so, as kinsmen met a night,We talked between the rooms,Until the moss had reached our lips,And covered up our names.

The soul should always stand ajar ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.

The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide, Earth a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

There is no Frigate like a book.

Water is taught by thirst;Land, by the oceans passed;Transport, by throe;Peace, by its battles told;Love, by memorial mould;Birds, by the snow.

Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it proved it proves too There was no Melody.

Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant/Success in Circuit lies...

This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!

He disposes Doom who hath suffered him.

Faith is a fine inventionWhen gentlemen can see,But microscopes are prudentIn an emergency.

Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, eyes –I wonder if It weighs like Mine –Or has an Easier size.I wonder if They bore it long –Or did it just begin –I could not tell the Date of Mine –It feels so old a pain –I wonder if it hurts to live –And if They have to try –And whether – could They choose between –It would not be – to die –I note that Some – gone patient long –At length, renew their smile –An imitation of a LightThat has so little Oil –I wonder if when Years have piled –Some Thousands – on the Harm –That hurt them early – such a lapseCould give them any Balm.

I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come, Nor action new, Except through this extent, The realm of you.

I had been hungry all the years-My noon had come, to dine-I, trembling, drew the table nearAnd touched the curious wine. 'Twas this on tables I had seenWhen turning, hungry, lone,I looked in windows, for the wealthI could not hope to own. I did not know the ample bread,'Twas so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature's diningroom. The plenty hurt me, 'twas so new,--Myself felt ill and odd,As berry of a mountain bushTransplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I foundThat hunger was a wayOf persons outside windows,The entering takes away.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?The Feet, mechanical, go round – Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone – This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

To shut your eyes is to travel.

One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —

Look back on Time, with kindly eyes -He doubtless did his best -How softly sinks that trembling sunIn Human Nature's West -

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Anger as soon as fed is dead 'tis starving makes it fat.

Anger as soon as fed is dead - Tis starving makes it fat.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size.

Love is anterior to life Posterior to death Initial of creation and The exponent of breath.

Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed.

Or help one fainting RobinUnto his Nest againI shall not live in vain.

Her breast is fit for pearls,But I was not a "Diver" - Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest,Her heart is fit for home-I- a Sparrow- build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.

We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor fear to be a king.

It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down;It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues, for noon.It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl,Nor fire, for just my marble feetCould keep a chancel cool.And yet it tasted like them all;The figures I have seenSet orderly, for burial,Reminded me of mine,As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;And I was like midnight, some,When everything that ticked has stopped,And space stares, all around,Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,Repeal the beating ground.But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,Without a chance or spar,--Or even a report of landTo justify despair.

Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.We slowly drove, he knew no haste,And I had put awayMy labour, and my leisure too,For his civility.We passed the school where children played,Their lessons scarcely done;We passed the fields of gazing grain,We passed the setting sun.We paused before a house that seemedA swelling of the ground;The roof was scarcely visible,The cornice but a mound.Since then 'tis centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the dayI first surmised the horses' headsWere toward eternity.

Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —

Truth is such a rare thing it is delightful to tell it,

If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.

She dealt her pretty words like Blades --How glittering they shone --And every One unbared a NerveOr wantoned with a Bone --She never deemed -- she hurt --That -- is not Steel's Affair --A vulgar grimace in the Flesh --How ill the Creatures bear --To Ache is human -- not polite --The Film upon the eyeMortality's old Custom --Just locking up -- to Die.

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.

We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.

My friends are my estate.

Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long,Or did it just begin?I could not tell the Date of Mine, It feels so old a pain. I wonder if it hurts to live,And if They have to try,And whether, could They choose between, It would not be, to die. I note that Some -- gone patient long --At length, renew their smile.An imitation of a LightThat has so little Oil. I wonder if when Years have piled,Some Thousands -- on the Harm Of early hurt -- if such a lapseCould give them any Balm; Or would they go on aching stillThrough Centuries above,Enlightened to a larger PainBy Contrast with the Love. The Grieved are many, I am told;The reason deeper lies, --Death is but oneand comes but once,And only nails the eyes. There's Grief of Want and Grief of Cold, --A sort they call "Despair";There's Banishment from native Eyes,In sight of Native Air. And though I may not guess the kindCorrectly, yet to meA piercing Comfort it affordsIn passing Calvary, To note the fashions of the Cross,And how they're mostly worn,Still fascinated to presumeThat Some are like My Own.

There's nothing wicked in Shakespeare, and if there is I don't want to know it.