Quotes by Emily Dickinson

The possibles slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

your brain is wider than the sky

We dream — it is good we are dreaming —It would hurt us — were we awake —But since it is playing — kill us,And we are playing — shriek —What harm? Men die — externally —It is a truth — of Blood —But we — are dying in Drama —And Drama — is never dead —Cautious — We jar each other —And either — open the eyes —Lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake —And the livid SurpriseCool us to Shafts of Granite —With just an Age — and Name —And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian —Its prudenter — to dream —

But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory’s fog is rising.

To shut your eyes is to travel.

I HIDE myself within my flowerThat wearing on your breast,You, unsuspecting, wear me too—And angels know the rest.I hide myself within my flower,That, fading from your vase,You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness...

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,One need not be a house;The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, ones own self encounterIn lonesome place.Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horrors least.The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,Oerlooking a superior spectreMore near.

Consciousness is the only home of which we know.

The past is not a package one can lay away.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, eyes –I wonder if It weighs like Mine –Or has an Easier size.I wonder if They bore it long –Or did it just begin –I could not tell the Date of Mine –It feels so old a pain –I wonder if it hurts to live –And if They have to try –And whether – could They choose between –It would not be – to die –I note that Some – gone patient long –At length, renew their smile –An imitation of a LightThat has so little Oil –I wonder if when Years have piled –Some Thousands – on the Harm –That hurt them early – such a lapseCould give them any Balm.

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

Parting is all we know of Heaven,and all we need of Hell.

In snow thou comestThou shalt go with resuming groundThe sweet derision of thx crowAnd Glees advancing sound

In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down,Whose bonnets touch the firmament,Whose sandals touch the town, ―Meek at whose everlasting feetA myriad daisies play.Which, sir, are you, and which am I.Upon an August day?

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 smileUpon 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.

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

Truth is such a rare thing it is delightful to tell it,

I never spoke — unless addressed —And then, twas brief and low —I could not bear to live — aloud —The Racket shamed me so —And if it had not been so far —And any one I knewWere going — I had often thoughtHow noteless — I could die —

I did not reach thee, But my feet slip nearer every day; Three Rivers and a Hill to cross, One Desert and a Sea— I shall not count the journey one When I am telling thee. Two deserts—but the year is cold So that will help the sand— One desert crossed, the second one Will feel as cool as land. Sahara is too little price To pay for thy Right hand! The sea comes last. Step merry, feet! So short have we to go To play together we are prone, But we must labor now, The last shall be the lightest load That we have had to draw. The Sun goes crooked—that is night— Before he makes the bend We must have passed the middle sea, Almost we wish the end Were further off—too great it seems So near the Whole to stand. We step like plush, we stand like snow— The waters murmur now, Three rivers and the hill are passed, Two deserts and the sea! Now Death usurps my premium And gets the look at Thee.

I like a look of agony, because I know its true