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

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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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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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A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.
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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.
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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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This so much joy! This so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so this side the victory!
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[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.
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PRESENTIMENT is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
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Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
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The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
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We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.
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