Emily Dickinson Quotes

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.

Forever is composed of nows

My Life had stood — a Loaded Gun

So from the mould
Scarlet and Gold
Many a Bulb will rise — Hidden away, cunningly,
From sagacious eyes.

So from Cocoon
Many a Worm
Leap so Highland gay,
Peasants like me — Peasants like Thee,
Gaze perplexedly!

Come slowly, Eden!
Lips unused to thee,
Bashful, sip thy jasmines,
As the fainting bee,

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums,
Counts his nectars — enters,
And is lost in balms!

Forever - is composed of Nows -
'Tis not a different time -
Except for Infiniteness -
And Latitude of Home -
From this - experienced Here -
Remove the Dates - to These -
Let Months dissolve in further Months -
And Years - exhale in Years -

As there are apartments in our own minds that we never enter without apology we should respect the seals of others.

The Hills erect their purple heads,
The Rivers lean to see — Yet Man has not, of all the throng,
A curiosity.

It is too difficult a Grace-
To justify the Dream-

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.

punctual as a star,

Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress
Unto All Heart — But since Myself — assault Me — How have I peace
Except by subjugating
Consciousness?

And since We're mutual Monarch
How this be
Except by Abdication — Me — of Me?

Because that you are going And never coming back And I, however absolute, May overlook your Track -

Because that Death is final, However first it be,

This instant be suspended Above Mortality -

Significance that each has lived The other to detect Discovery not God himself Could now annihilate

Eternity, Presumption The instant I perceive That you, who were Existence Yourself forgot to live -

The “Life that is” will then have been A thing I never knewAs Paradise fictitious Until the Realm of you-

The “Life that is to be,” to me,

A Residence too plain Unless in my Redeemer’s Face I recognize your own -

Of Immortality who doubts He may exchange with me Curtailed by your obscuring Face Of everything but He -

Of Heaven and Hell I also yield The Right to reprehend To whoso would commute this Face For his less priceless Friend.

This was in the white of the year — that — was in the green — drifts were as difficult then to think
as daisies now to be seen — Looking back is best that is left
or if it be — before — retrospection is prospect’s half,
sometimes, almost more.

Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.