Emily Dickinson Quotes (543 Quotes)

Other Courtesies have been --
Other Courtesy may be --
We commend ourselves to thee
Paragon of Chivalry.

How far is it to Hell?

Borne without dissent of Either
To the Parish night --
Of the Separated Parties
Which be out of sight?

Winter under cultivation
Is as arable as Spring.

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

Truth is such a rare thing, it is a delight to tell it.

The reticent volcano keeps
His never slumbering plan --
Confided are his projects pink
To no precarious man.

There is no Silence in the Earth -- so silent
As that endured
Which uttered, would discourage Nature
And haunt the World.

I reason, Earth is short --
And Anguish -- absolute --
And many hurt,
But, what of that?

To such, if they should whisper
Of morning and the moor,
They bear no other errand,
And I, no other prayer.

The Birds rose smiling, in their nests --
The gales -- indeed -- were done --
Alas, how heedless were the eyes --
On whom the summer shone!

Charged us to forget Him --
But we couldn't learn!

Paid all that life had earned
In one consummate bill,
And now, what life or death can do
Is immaterial.

The Subterranean Freight
The Cellars of the Soul --
Thank God the loudest Place he made
Is license to be still.

But Bliss, is sold just once.

Anguish can travel to its stake,
And then it must return.

Pardon the Cochineal --
Suffer the Vermillion --
Death is the Wealth
Of the Poorest Bird.

And all the Earth strove common round --
Without Delight, or Beam --
What Comfort was it Wisdom -- was --
The spoiler of Our Home?

The implements of bliss are few --
As Jesus says of Him,
"Come unto me" the moiety
That wafts the cherubim.

To hold a letter to the light --
Grown Tawny now, with time --
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!

Motioned itself to drill
Loaded and Levelled
And let His Flesh
Centuries from His soul.

Where every bird is bold to go
And bees abashless play,
The foreigner before he knocks
Must thrust the tears away.

Nature is what we know Yet have not art to say So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.

They might not need me; but they might. I'll let my head be just in sight; a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.

I know of people in the Grave
Who would be very glad
To know the news I know tonight
If they the chance had had.

Steady -- my soul: What issues
Upon thine arrow hang!

never let anyone let make you feel inferior without your consent

Some Rainbow -- coming from the Fair!

What care the Dead for Winter?

Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!

The fog is rising.

The River reaches to my feet --
As yet -- My Heart be dry --
Oh Lover -- Life could not convince --
Might Death -- enable Thee --

Groped up, to see if God was there --
Groped backward at Himself
Caressed a Trigger absently
And wandered out of Life.

The Soul should always stand ajar.

Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, A pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon A needless life it seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.

The lower metres of the Year
When Nature's laugh is done
The Revelations of the Book
Whose Genesis was June.

To love thee Year by Year --
May less appear
Than sacrifice, and cease --
However, dear,
Forever might be short, I thought to show --
And so I pieced it, with a flower, now.

According as his skill prefer
It perish, or endure --
Content, soe'er, it ornament
His absent character.

A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.

People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.

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

How dreary to be somebody How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog.

That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.

Not to discover weakness is The Artifice of strength.

This -- is the land -- the Sunset washes --
These -- are the Banks of the Yellow Sea --
Where it rose -- or whither it rushes --
These -- are the Western Mystery!

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.

All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air,
God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair!

The Frost of Death was on the Pane --
"Secure your Flower" said he.

How red the Fire rocks below --
How insecure the sod
Did I disclose
Would populate with awe my solitude.

Let us go in the fog is rising.