Emily Dickinson Quotes - Page 2

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.

and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground – because I am afraid –

Bless God, he went as soldiers,His musket on his breast—Grant God, he charge the bravestOf all the martial blest!Please God, might I behold himIn epauletted white—I should not fear the foe then—I should not fear the fight!

The past is not a package one can lay away.

Where thou art that is home.

Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.

Dying is a wild night and a new road.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

Not with a club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone –A Whip so small you could not see itI've known

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

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--Success in Circuit liesToo bright for our infirm DelightThe Truth's superb surpriseAs Lightning to the Children easedWith explanation kindThe Truth must dazzle graduallyOr every man be blind--

Superiority to fate is difficult to gain 'tis not conferred of any but possible to earn.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,One clover, and a bee,And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.

A wounded deer leaps the highest.

Art is a house that tries to be haunted.

We turn not older with years but newer every day.

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me,So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.

A wounded dear leaps the highest

Till I loved I never lived.

Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.

The Soul selects her own Society.

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

I never spoke — unless addressed —And then, 'twas brief and low —I could not bear to live — aloud —The Racket shamed me so —And if it had not been so far —And any one I knewWere going — I had often thoughtHow noteless — I could die —

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

Impossibility, like wineExhilarates the manWho tastes it; PossibilityIs flavoreless.

To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye....

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.

your brain is wider than the sky

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human soul.

The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

Parting is all we know of Heaven,and all we need of Hell.

The brain is wider than the sky.

Heart, we will forget him,You and I, tonight!You must forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.

Life is death we're lengthy at

I held a jewel in my fingerstAnd went to sleep.tThe day was warm, and winds were prosy;tI said: "'T will keep."I woke and chid my honest fingers,—The gem was gone;tAnd now an amethyst remembrancetIs all I own.

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think.

But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory’s fog is rising.

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.The thought behind, I strove to joinUnto the thought before—But Sequence ravelled out of SoundLike Balls—upon a Floor.

If you were coming in the Fall, I'd brush the Summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As Housewives do a Fly. If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls —And put them each in separate Drawers, For fear the numbers fuse —If only Centuries, delayed, I'd count them on my Hand, Subtracting, till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I ’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But, now, uncertain of the length Of this, that is between, It goads me, like the Goblin Bee, That will not state — its sting.

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

Consciousness is the only home of which we know.

I like a look of agony, because I know it's true

Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,One need not be a house;The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, one's own self encounterIn lonesome place.Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horror's least.The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,O'erlooking a superior spectreMore near.

PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there's a word to lift your hat to... to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that's the genius behind poetry.

Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I've heard it in the chilliest landAnd on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.

Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -And sore must be the storm -That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm -I’ve heard it in the chillest land -And on the strangest Sea -Yet - never - in Extremity,It asked a crumb - of me.

We dream — it is good we are dreaming —It would hurt us — were we awake —But since it is playing — kill us,And we are playing — shriek —What harm? Men die — externally —It is a truth — of Blood —But we — are dying in Drama —And Drama — is never dead —Cautious — We jar each other —And either — open the eyes —Lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake —And the livid SurpriseCool us to Shafts of Granite —With just an Age — and Name —And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian —It's prudenter — to dream —

Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you’re lagging,I may remember him!

Sunrise: day's great progenitor.

Not “Revelation” – tis – that waitsBut our unfurnished eyes –

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed.

We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.

Finite to fail but infinite to venture.

Faith—is the Pierless BridgeSupporting what We seeUnto the Scene that We do not—Too slender for the eyeIt bears the Soul as boldAs it were rocked in SteelWith Arms of Steel at either side—It joins—behind the VeilTo what, could We presumeThe Bridge would cease to beTo Our far, vacillating FeetA first Necessity.

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.

To be alive──is Power.

Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.