Emily Dickinson Quotes

VI: A SERVICE OF SONG. 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.
Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.
God preaches, — a noted clergyman, — And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last, I’m going all along!

The only secret people keep is immortality.

Earth is crammed with Heaven.

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

Who has not found the Heaven — below —
Will fail of it above —

I breathed enough to learn the trick,
And now, removed from air,
I simulate the breath so well,
That one, to be quite sure

The lungs are stirless, must descend
Among the cunning cells,
And touch the pantomime himself.
How cool the bellows feels!

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become — Who had they lived, had died but when
They died, Vitality begun.

A power of Butterfly must be -
The Aptitude to fly
Meadows of Majesty concedes
And easy Sweeps of Sky -

I think I was enchanted
When first a sombre Girl — I read that Foreign Lady** — The Dark — felt beautiful — And whether it was noon at night — Or only Heaven — at Noon — For very Lunacy of Light
I had not power to tell — The Bees — became as Butterflies — The Butterflies — as Swans — Approached — and spurned the narrow Grass — And just the meanest Tunes

That Nature murmured to herself
To keep herself in Cheer — I took for Giants — practising
Titanic Opera — The Days — to Mighty Metres stept — The Homeliest — adorned
As if unto a Jubilee
'Twere suddenly confirmed — I could not have defined the change — Conversion of the Mind
Like Sanctifying in the Soul — Is witnessed — not explained — 'Twas a Divine Insanity — The Danger to be Sane
Should I again experience — 'Tis Antidote to turn — To Tomes of solid Witchcraft — Magicians be asleep — But Magic — hath an Element
Like Deity — to keep —

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain.

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet

Upon the gallows hung a wretch, Too sullied for the hell To which the law entitled him. As nature’s curtain fell The one who bore him tottered in, For this was woman’s son. “’T was all I had,” she stricken gasped; Oh, what a livid boon!

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;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty,
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true:
He lived where dreams were born.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize just so.

I died for Beauty — but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb, When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room — He questioned softly "Why I failed"? "For Beauty," I replied. "And I — for Truth, — Themself are One — We Brethren, are", He said —

Con finezas tan nimias como libros o flores se plantan semillas de sonrisas que van a florecer entre las sombras.