Emily Dickinson Quotes

To lose what we never owned might seem an eccentric Bereavement but Presumption has its Affliction as actually as Claim —

Belshazzar had a letter, — He never had but one;
Belshazzar’s correspondent
Concluded and begun
In that immortal copy
The conscience of us all
Can read without its glasses
On revelation’s wall.

Come with me this morning to the church within our hearts, where the bells are always ringing, and the preacher whose name is love — shall intercede for us!

My Life had stood — a Loaded Gun —
In Corners — till a Day
The Owner passed — identified —
And carried Me away — And now We roam in Sovereign Woods —
And now We hunt the Doe —
And every time I speak for Him —
The Mountains straight reply —

I am very busy picking up stems and stamens as the hollyhocks leave their clothes around.

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

Remember and care for me sometimes, and scatter a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me.

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.

An ill heart, like a body, has its more comfortable days, and then its days of pain, its long relapse, when rallying requires more effort than to dissolve life, and death looks choiceless.

Pain - has an Element of Blank
It cannot recollect
When it begun - or if there were
a time when it was not -
It has no Future - but itself -
Its Infinite contain
Its Past - enlightened to perceive
New Periods - of Pain.

I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away —

Let us strive together to part with time more reluctantly, to watch the pinions of the fleeting moment until they are dim in the distance, and the new-coming moment claims our attention.

Unto my Books-so good to turn-
Far ends of tired Days-
It half endears the Abstinence-
And Pain-is missed-in Praise-

As Flavors-cheer Retarded Guests
With Banquettings to be-
So Spices-stimulate the time
Till my small Library-

It may be Wilderness-without-
Far feet of failing Men-
But Holiday-excludes the night-
And it is Bells-within-

I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf-
Their Countenances Kid
Enamor-in Prospective-
And satisfy-obtained-

Hope is the thing with feathers

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.