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I dwell in possibilities .

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
Dwell
Possibilities
Healing
Possibility

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Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --
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Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
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I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious
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Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.
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Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye.
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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Forever is made up of nows.
Emily Dickinson
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The brain is wider than the sky.
Emily Dickinson
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
Emily Dickinson
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God's unique capacity is too surprising to surprise.
Emily Dickinson
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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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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me
Emily Dickinson
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Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.
Emily Dickinson
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The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
Emily Dickinson
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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.
Emily Dickinson
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The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.
Emily Dickinson
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Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence - is denied them. They fling their Speech By means of it - in God's Ear - If then He hear - This sums the Apparatus Comprised in Prayer
Emily Dickinson
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
Emily Dickinson