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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More than the Grave is closed to me —
The Grave and that Eternity
To which the Grave adheres —
I cling to nowhere till I fall —
The Crash of nothing, yet of all —
How similar appears —

The Martyr Poets

The Martyr Poets — did not tell — But wrought their Pang in syllable — That when their mortal name be numb — Their mortal fate — encourage Some — The Martyr Painters — never spoke — Bequeathing — rather — to their Work
That when their conscious fingers cease — Some seek in Art — the Art of Peace —

Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

I took one Draught of Life —
I'll tell you what I paid —
Precisely an existence —
The market price, they said.

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.

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

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

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

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!

It’s such a little thing to weep -
So short a thing to sigh -
And yet - by Trades - the size of these
We men and women die!

Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve,
and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it.

I can wade grief,
Whole pools of it,
I ’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip — drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
’T was the new liquor, — That was all!

Power is only pain,
Stranded, through discipline,
Till weights will hang.
Give balm to giants,
And they ’ll wilt, like men.
Give Himmaleh,
They ’ll carry him!

I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air —
Between the Heaves of Storm —