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Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

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
Cooking
Fame
Food
Emily
Literature
Fickle
Upon
Plate
Plates
Shifting
Idols

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If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me.
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Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home
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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
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Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
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A Word that Breathes Distinctly Has not the Power to Die
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.
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The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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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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A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find
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I dwell in Possibility A fairer house than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior — for Doors.
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Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.
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I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.
Emily Dickinson