Top 528 Quotes & Sayings by Emily Dickinson - Page 6

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

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

If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.

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

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

There is no Silence in the Earth - so silent As that endured Which uttered, would discourage Nature And haunt the World.

I started early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me

I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now

In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!

The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.

I am going to learn to make bread tomorrow. So if you may imagine me with my sleeves rolled up, mixing flour, milk, saleratus, etc., with a deal of grace. I advise you if you dont know how to make the staff of life to learn with dispatch.

The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -

I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way

The Past is such a curious Creature To look her in the Face A Transport may receipt us Or a Disgrace-.

After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.

This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me, the simple news that nature told, with tender majesty. Her message is committed, to hands I cannot see; for love of her, sweet countrymen, judge tenderly of me.

I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old.

Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.

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?

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

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

To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.

Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon; A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.

Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb

Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --

She dealt her pretty words like Blades -- How glittering they shone -- And every One unbared a Nerve Or 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 eye Mortality's old Custom -- Just locking up -- to Die.

We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.

All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.

Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass. No Ordinance be seen So gradual the Grace A pensive Custom it becomes Enlarging Loneliness. Antiquest felt at Noon When August burning low Arise this spectral Canticle Repose to typify Remit as yet no Grace No Furrow on the Glow Yet a Druidic Difference Enhances Nature now.

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

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

You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.

The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.

Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.

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

As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.

I died for Beauty--but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room

And then--a Day as huge As Yesterdays in pairs, Unrolled its horror in my face-- Until it blocked my eyes

God, keep me from what they call 'households,'

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.

They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady

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

Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.

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.

Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.

Victory comes late-- And is held low to freezing lips-- Too rapt with frost To take it

What fortitude the Soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming Foot- The opening of a Door.

Death is a supple suitor, that wins at last. It is a stealthy wooing; conducted first by pallid innuendos and dim approach, but brave at last with bugles.

Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.

A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still. The smitten rock that gushes, The trampled steel that springs,, A cheek is always redder Just where the hectic stings Mirth is mail of anguish, In which its cautious arm Lest anybody spy the blood And, you're hurt exclaim.

I dwell in Possibility A fairer house than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior — for Doors.

Heavenly Father - take to thee The supreme iniquity Fashioned by thy candid Hand In a moment contraband - Though to trust us seem to us More respectful - We are Dust - We apologize to thee For thine own Duplicity.

I do not know the man so bold He dare in lonely Place That awful stranger Consciousness Deliberately face-.

Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-

Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid - as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.

Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition So clear of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Break agonized and clear.

A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.