Emily Dickinson Quotes

American poet (1830-1886)

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Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Virtually unknown in her lifetime, Dickinson has come to be regarded as one of the greatest American poets of the 19th century. Although she wrote (at latest count) 1789 poems, only a few of them were published in her lifetime, all anonymously, and some perhaps without her knowledge.

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Birth Name: Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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And then a Plank in Reason, broke/And I dropped down, and down

THE MOON was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.

We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer,

We never know we go, — when we are going
We jest and shut the door;
Fate following behind us bolts it,
And we accost no more.

It dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind;

Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
Than I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
Upon my silver shelf.

It might be easier To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula To perish of delight.

Ourself behind ourself, concealed — should startle most —

So we must meet apart — You there — I — here
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are — and Prayer — And that White Sustenance — Despair — — Emily Dickinson, from “I Cannot Live with You,” The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (Little,Brown and Company, 1960)

What inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar traveller comes?
Who is the landlord?
Where are the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth,
No brimming tankards flow.
Necromancer, landlord,
Who are these below?

I know that He exists.
Somewhere – in silence –
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.

There is a pain – so utter –
It swallows substance up –
Then covers the Abyss with Trance –
So Memory can step
Around – across – opon it –
As one within a Swoon –
Goes safely – where an open eye –
Would drop Him – Bone by Bone.

... Spring is a happiness so beautiful, so unique, so unexpected, that I don't know what to do with my heart.

"Will there really be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!"

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.

It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down — It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.