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
Thing
Funeral
Never
Tunes
Perches
Love
Hope
Eulogy
Life
Words
Fertility
Inspirational
Emily
Women
Sings
Soul
Feathers
Without
Stops

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His Cheek is his Biographer- As long as he can blush.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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I think Heaven will not be as good as earth, unless it bring with it that sweet power to remember, which is the staple of Heaven here.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
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The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.
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Those who lift their hats shall see Nature as devout do God.
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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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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
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
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Opinion is a flitting thing But Truth outlasts the Sun.
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I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way
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Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit-Life!
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies
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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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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!
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