Quotes by Emily Dickinson

Art is a house that tries to be haunted.

It was not Death, for I stood up,And all the Dead, lie down—It was not Night, for all the BellsPut out their Tongues, for Noon.

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul...

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

Not knowing when the dawn will comeI open every door.

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

Her breast is fit for pearls,But I was not a Diver - Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest,Her heart is fit for home-I- a Sparrow- build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.

Hunger is a wayOf standing outside windowsThe entering takes away.

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,Like petals from a rose,When suddenly across the luneA wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass,No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless listCan summon every face

Life is death were lengthy at

Or help one fainting RobinUnto his Nest againI shall not live in vain.

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

To be alive──is Power.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

Theres nothing wicked in Shakespeare, and if there is I dont want to know it.

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

Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.

The career of flowers differs from ours only in inaudibleness. I feel more reverence as I grow for these mute creatures whose suspense or transport may surpass my own.

If you were coming in the Fall, Id brush the Summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As Housewives do a Fly. If I could see you in a year, Id wind the months in balls —And put them each in separate Drawers, For fear the numbers fuse —If only Centuries, delayed, Id count them on my Hand, Subtracting, till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemens land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I ’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. But, now, uncertain of the length Of this, that is between, It goads me, like the Goblin Bee, That will not state — its sting.

I dwell in possibility…