Quote

A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find

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
Tree
Note
Stars
Near
Find
Loud
Enough
Trees
Notes
Star
Seek
Wind
Murmur

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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides
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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
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The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.
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Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
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My love for those I love -- not many -- not very many, but don't I love them so?
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Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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Eternity' is there, We say, as of a station. Meanwhile, he is so near, He joins me in my Ramble? Divides abode with me? No Friend have I that so persists As this Eternity.
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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.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream
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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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The Morning after Woe- Tis frequently the Way- Surpasses all that rose before- For utter Jubilee-.
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I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
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Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.
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