Emily Dickinson Quotes

Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.

They say that 'home is where the heart is.' I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.

If your Nerve, deny you
Go above your Nerve

We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.

The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be a king.

A soft Sea washed around the House
A Sea of Summer Air
And rose and fell the magic Planks
That sailed without a care — For Captain was the Butterfly
For Helmsman was the Bee
And an entire universe
For the delighted crew.

Inebriate of Air — am I — And Debauchee of Dew — Reeling — thro endless summer days — From Inns of Molten Blue —

The Brain - is wider than the Sky -
For - put them side by side -
The one the other will contain
With ease - and You - beside -

The Brain is deeper than the sea -
For- hold them - Blue to Blue -
The one the other will absorb -
As Sponges - Buckets - do -

The Brain is just the weight of God -
For - Heft them - Pound for Pound -
And they will differ - if they do -
As Syllable from Sound.

I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You'll know it by the rows of stars around it's forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats. Oh! Find it, sir, for me!

If your Nerve, deny you — Go above your Nerve — He can lean against the Grave,
If he fear to swerve — That's a steady posture — Never any bend
Held of those Brass arms — Best Giant made — If your Soul seesaw — Lift the Flesh door — The Poltroon wants Oxygen — Nothing more —

It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness — I'm so accustomed to my Fate — Perhaps the Other — Peace — Would interrupt the Dark — And crowd the little Room — Too scant — by Cubits — to contain
The Sacrament — of Him — I am not used to Hope — It might intrude upon — Its sweet parade — blaspheme the place — Ordained to Suffering — It might be easier
To fail — with Land in Sight — Than gain — My Blue Peninsula — To perish — of Delight — F535 (1863) J405

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Art is a house that tries to be haunted.

Forever is composed of nows..

Love is like the wild rose-briar;
Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring
,Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
And deck thee with holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He still may leave thy garland green.

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.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And I was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos, — stopless, cool,
Without a chance or spar, — Or even a report of land
To justify despair.