Quote

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.

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
Needs
Sight
Joy
Helpfulness
Head
Precisely
Small
Necessity
Happiness
Laughter
Helping
Smile
Might
Mines
Need
Mine

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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.
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To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
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Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim Haste! lest while you’re lagging, I may remember him!
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Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still...nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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The vastest earthly Day Is shrunken small By one Defaulting Face Behind a Pall.
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Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved - the site of it by architect could not again be proved.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.
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One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
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Renunciation-is a piercing Virtue-The letting go A Presence-for an Expectation-.
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[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.
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It is finished, is never said of us
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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Good times are always mutual that is what makes good times.
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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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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore A privilege I think.
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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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