Quote

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.

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
Privacy
Profounder
Solitude
Polar
Sea
Admitted
Shall
Finite
Space
Societies
Death
Site
Soul
Infinity
Compared

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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
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You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!
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Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed.
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The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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I dwell in possiblities.
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It is finished, is never said of us
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The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.
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Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.
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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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Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.
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Find ecstasy in life the mere sense of living is joy enough.
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a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.
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I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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I dwell in possibilities .
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The only secret people keep is immortality.
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That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.
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Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.
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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!
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