Quote

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

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Emily Dickinson
Age: 55 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 10
Died: 1886
Died: May 15
Poet
Writer
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Ai-mi-li Ti-chin-sen
Emilia Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
Without
Stops
Thing
Funeral
Never
Tunes
Perches
Love
Hope
Eulogy
Life
Words
Fertility
Inspirational
Emily
Women
Sings
Soul
Feathers

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It is easy to work when the soul is at play.
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The Supernatural is only the Natural disclosed.
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Those who lift their hats shall see Nature as devout do God.
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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.
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Nods from the Gilded pointers - Nods from the Seconds slim - Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life - And Him -
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How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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Nature is what we see - the hill, the afternoon, squirrel, eclipse, the bumblebee. Nay, nature is heaven. Nature is what we hear...
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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
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It is finished, is never said of us
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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.
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The minister today preached about death and judgment, and what would become of those who behaved improperly - and somehow it scared me. He preached such an awful sermon I didn't think I should ever see you again until the Judgment Day. The subject of perdition seemed to please him somehow.
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
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You remember my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight - though going out of sight in itself has a peculiar pleasure.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.
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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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