Quotes by Emily Dickinson (Page 2 of 2)

Wild Nights -- Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile -- the winds -- To a heart in port -- Done with the compass -- Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden -- Ah, the sea! Might I moor -- Tonight -- In thee!

Publication -- is the auction of the mind.

Unto a broken heart No other one may go Without the high prerogative Itself hath suffered too.

The Pleading of the Summer -- That other Prank -- of Snow -- That Cushions Mystery with Tulle, For fear the Squirrels -- know.

Safe Despair it is that raves- Agony is frugal. Puts itself severe away For its own perusal.

Portraits are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.

If you take care of the small things, the big things take care of themselves. You can gain more control over your life by paying closer attention to the little things.

Eternity' is there, We say, as of a station. Meanwhile, he is so near, He joins me in my Ramble? Divides abode with me? No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.

What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?

An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.

A sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.

I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.

The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.

The Brain is just the weight of God --
For -- Heft them -- Pound for Pound --
And they will differ -- if they do --
As Syllable from Sound.

When I state myself, as the representative of the verse, it does not mean me, but a supposed person.

God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him! The charms of the heaven in the bush are superseded, I fear, by the heaven in the hand, occasionally.

I imagine therefore I belong and am free.

Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!

Witchcraft was hung, in History, But History and I Find all the Witchcraft that we need Around us, every Day .

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

Over the fence--
Strawberries-- grow--
Over the fence--
I could climb-- if I tried, I know--
Berries are nice!
But-- if I stained my Apron--
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear, -- I guess if He were a Boy--
He'd-- climb-- if He could!

God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.

To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie-- True Poems flee--.

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.

Twas my one glory -
Let it be
Remembered
I was owned of Thee.

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.

When everything that ticked has stopped, and space stares, all around, or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, repeal the beating ground.

The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little, -- And that's the skies!

His Labor is a Chant -- His Idleness -a Tune -- Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!

Undue significance a starving man attaches to food
Far off ; he sighs, and therefore hopeless,
And therefore good.
Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves us
That spices fly
In the receipt. It was the distance
Was savory.

MY river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I 'll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks,-- Say, sea, Take me!

The Soul should always stand ajar.

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there 's a pair of us--don't tell!
They 'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

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

The past is not a package one can lay away.

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me.

The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.

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.

Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved -- the site of it by architect could not again be proved.

March is the month of expectation,

The things we do not know,

The Persons of Prognostication

Are coming now.

We try to sham becoming firmness,

But pompous joy

Betrays us, as his first betrothal

Betrays a boy.

A light exists in Spring
Not present in the year
at any other period
When March is scarcely here.

Superiority to Fate Is difficult to gain 'Tis not conferred of Any But possible to earn.

I confess that I love him, I rejoice that I love him, I thank the maker of Heaven and Earth that gave him to me. The exultation floods me.

I felt it shelter to speak to you.

Bring me the sunset in a cup.

I must go in, the fog is rising.

This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me.

Love is everything. And that's all we know about it.

I tasted life.

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

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.

I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there 's a pair of us -- don't tell! They 'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

A wounded dear leaps the highest.

If your Nerve, deny you -- Go above your Nerve.

Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.

The Heart wants what it wants -- or else it does not care.

Truth is so rare, it is delightful to tell it.

Pardon my sanity in a world insane.

One step at a time is all it takes to get you there.

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

Who loves you most, and loves you best, and thinks of you when others rest? 'Tis Emilie.

How vain it seems to write, when one knows how to feel -- how much more near and dear to sit beside you, talk with you, hear the tones of your voice...Give me strength, Susie, write me of hope and love, and of hearts that endure.

Sweet hour, blessed hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper goodbye again.

The days will have more hours while you are gone away.

The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise.

That Love is all there is
Is all we know of Love,
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

Your absence insanes me so -- I do not feel so peaceful, when you are gone from me.

Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you'll never go away, oh you never will.

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.

When
Continents
expire
The Giants
they discarded --
are
Promoted
to endure --.

Each life converges to some centre expressed or still.

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

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

There are depths in every Consciousness, from which we cannot rescue ourselves -- to which none can go with us.

The brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside.

At least to pray is left -- is left Oh Jesus -- in the Air -- I know not which thy chamber is -- I'm knocking everywhere.

His mind of man, a secret makes I meet him with a start he carries a circumference in which I have no part.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home, with a bobolink for a chorister, and an orchard for a dome.

November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.

Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast--
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white--
I should not fear the foe then--
I should not fear the fight!

I never saw a meme; I never saw the sea.

I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still... I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose.

Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb -- or Dome of Worm -- or Porch of Gnome -- or some Elf's Catacomb?

I hope you're very careful working, eating and drinking when the heat is so great -- there are temptations there which at home you are free from -- beware the juicy fruits, and the cooling ades, and cordials, and do not eat ice-cream, it is so very dangerous.

Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude.

Two Seasons, it is said, exist-

The Summer of the Just,

And this of Ours, diversified

With Prospect, and with Frost-
May not our Second with its First

So infinite compare

That We but recollect the one

The other to prefer?

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

There is no frigate like a book.

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.

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

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.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted.

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

Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

When the Best is gone -- I know that other things are not of consequence -- The Heart wants what it wants -- or else it does not care .

A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

A light exists in Spring
Not present in the year
at any other period
When March is scarcely here.

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

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away.

The truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

The brain is deeper than the sea.

There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away.

The sun just touched the morning; the morning, happy thing, supposed that he had come to dwell, and life would be all spring.

We turn not older with years, but newer every day.

Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still...nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.

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.

I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.

A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.

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.

Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

Luck is not chance, it's toil; fortune's expensive smile is earned.

Behavior is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes.

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

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

Saying nothing... sometimes says the most.

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.

Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.

Fortune befriends the bold.

A wounded deer leaps the highest.

Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.

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

I have a brother and sister; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind.

I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.

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

Dying is a wild night and a new road.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

Where thou art, that is home.

How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.

I never had a mother. I suppose a mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.

Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.