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

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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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When everything that ticked has stopped, and space stares, all around, or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, repeal the beating ground.
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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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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
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I could not prove the Years had feet-/Yet confident they run.
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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I tasted life.
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Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?
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Our little kinsmen after rain In plenty may be seen, a pink and pulpy multitude The tepid ground upon A needless life if seemed to me Until a little bird As to a hospitality Advanced and breakfasted.
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Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me?
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Beauty is not the cause of something, it is what it is.
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Endow the Living - with the Tears - You squander on the Dead.
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We never know we go when we are going- We jest and shut the Door- Fate-following-behind us bolts it- And we accost no more-.
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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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LOOK back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west!
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Spring is the Period Express from God. Among the other seasons Himself abide, But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
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March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of Prognostication Are coming now. We try to sham becoming firmness, But pompous joy Betrays us, as his first betrothal Betrays a boy.
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