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I felt it shelter to speak to you.

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
Felt
Shelter
Smile
Relationship
Speak
Inspirational

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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
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The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?
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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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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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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.
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Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies
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Spring is the Period Express from God.
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For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
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This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---
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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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The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.
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'Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with Daisies lie- That Commerce will continue- And Trades as briskly fly.
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Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-
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Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.
Emily Dickinson
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I do not like the man who squanders life for fame give me the man who living makes a name.
Emily Dickinson
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That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.
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There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes— Heavenly Hurt, it gives us— We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens— Shadows—hold their breath— When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
Emily Dickinson