Quote

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.

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
Still
Wide
Take
Tired
Enough
Nobody
Never
Shall
Life
Open
Forever
Else
Stills
Noisy

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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
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We trust in plumed procession For such the angels go Rank after rank, with even feet/And uniforms of snow.
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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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Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
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The WILL is always near, dear, though the feet vary.
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I don't profess to be profound but I do lay claim to common sense.
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The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
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[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.
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The power to console is not within corporeal reach - though its attempt is precious.
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Fortune befriends the bold.
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My life closed twice before its close It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat
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Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!
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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
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I had a terror-since September -I could tell to none-and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground-because I am afraid.
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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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I could not stop for death and he did not stop for me.
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Luck is not chance, it's toil fortune's expensive smile is earned.
Emily Dickinson