Emily Dickinson Quotes

Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide, But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.

We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.

It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.

Nature, like us is sometimes caught without her diadem.

Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.

Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...

Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.

But a Book is only the Heart's Portrait- every Page a Pulse.

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.

Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!

It is easy to work when the soul is at play.

LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!

The truth dazzles gradually, or else the world would be blind.

How much can come And much can go, And yet abide the world!

This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---

AMPLE make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair. Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise’ yellow noise Interrupt this ground.

I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody, too?

We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.

Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved - the site of it by architect could not again be proved.

Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid - as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.

His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!

I measure every grief I meet with narrow, probing eyes - I wonder if it weighs like mine - or has an easier size.

Behold this little Bane- The Boon of all alive- As common as it is unknown The name of it is Love.

He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.

There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.

We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.

Superiority to fate is difficult to gain 'tis not conferred of any but possible to earn.

Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-

In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!

To multiply the harbors does not reduce the sea.

Victory comes late-- And is held low to freezing lips-- Too rapt with frost To take it

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?

I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now

MY river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I ’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks,— Say, sea, Take me!

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

Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.

Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?

My only sketch, profile, of Heaven is a large blue sky, and larger than the biggest I have seen in June - and in it are my friends - every one of them.

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

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

Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.

The words the happy say Are paltry melody But those the silent feel Are beautiful-.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity

The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.