Quote

You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!

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
Cannot
Without
Ignite
Thing
Darkest
Flame
Flames
Fire
Night

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Fortune befriends the bold.
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
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By Chivalries as tiny, A Blossom, or a Book, The seeds of smiles are planted- Which Blossom in the dark.
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I tasted life.
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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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The only secret people keep is immortality.
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Hope is a thing with feathers
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All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.
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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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I don't profess to be profound but I do lay claim to common sense.
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A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
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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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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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I have an appetite for silence.
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There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
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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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To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.
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PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there's a word to lift your hat to... to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that's the genius behind poetry.
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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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Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
Emily Dickinson