Quotes by Emily Dickinson

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Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Though virtually unknown in her lifetime, Dickinson has come to be regarded with Walt Whitman as one of the two great American poets of the 19th century. Her life has inspired numerous biographers and voluminous speculation; mostly about her sexuality, of which little is definitively known. more

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

A wounded deer leaps the highest.
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.
Death is a Dialogue between, the Spirit and the Dust.
I argue thee that love is life. And life hath immortality.
The Brain is wider than the sky-.
Where thou art, that is home.
Much Madness is divinest Sense -- to a discerning Eye -- much Sense -- the starkest Madness --
Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.
We never know how high we are till we are called to rise; and then, if we are true to plan, our stature's touch the skies.
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.
Assent -- and you are sane -- , demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- , and handled with a Chain -- .
Dying is a wild night and a new road.
Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
Anger as soon as fed is dead; 'Tis starving makes it fat.
Tell the truth, but tell it slant.
Luck is not chance, it is toil. Fortune is expensive smile is earned.
Faith is a fine invention when Gentleman can see -- but microscopes are prudent in an emergency
To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
Surgeons must be very careful. When they take the knife!, underneath their fine incisions, stirs the Culprit -- Life!
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.
A word is dead when it is said. Some say. I say it just, begins to live that day.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb -- or Dome of Worm -- or Porch of Gnome -- or some Elf's Catacomb?
Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved -- the site of it by architect could not again be proved.
Let us go in; the fog is rising.
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid -- as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.
Nature, like us is sometimes caught without her diadem.
To live is so starling it leaves little time for anything else.
His mind of man, a secret makes I meet him with a start he carries a circumference in which I have no part.
I like a look of Agony, because I know it's true -- men do not sham Convulsion, nor simulate, a Throe --
Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
His Labor is a Chant -- his Idleness -- a Tune -- oh, for a Bee's experience of Clovers, and of Noon!
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.
There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
The abdication of belief makes the behavior small -- better an ignis fatuus than no illume at all.
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.
A great hope fell / You heard no noise / The Ruin was within.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant— / Success in Circuit lies.
I tasted—careless—then— / I did not know the Wine / Came once a World—Did you?
A Deed knocks first at Thought / And then—it knocks at Will— / That is the manufacturing spot.
Not with a Club, the Heart is broken / Nor with a Stone— / A Whip so small you could not see it / I’ve known / To lash the Magic Creature / Till it fell.
I reason, Earth is short— / And Anguish— absolute— / And many hurt, / But, what of that?
The Soul unto itself / Is an imperial friend— / Or the most agonizing Spy— / An Enemy—could send
. . . how still the Landscape stands! How nonchalant the Hedge! As if the "Resurrection" Were nothing very strange!
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--
A little Madness in the Spring / Is wholesome even for the King, / But God be with the Clown.
A single Screw of Flesh / Is all that pins the Soul
A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork Without a Revery--And so encountering a Fly This January Day Jamaicas of Remembrance stir That send me reeling in--This moderate drinker of Delight Does not deserve the spring--
This World is not Conclusion. A Species stands beyond--Invisible, as Music--But positive, as Sound.
A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period--When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels.
As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away--Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy--
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons--That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are--

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