Quote

That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.

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
Make
Illustrious
Bustle
Stir
Potential
Consequence
Short
Almost
Death

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Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --
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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 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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I dwell in Possibility A fairer House than Prose More numerous of Windows Superior--for Doors Of Chambers as the Cedars Impregnable of Eye And for an Everlasting Roof The Gambrels of the Sky Of Visitors--the fairest For Occupation--This The spreading wide my narrow Hands To gather Paradise
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.
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I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in Heaven Yet certain am I of the spot, As if a chart were given.
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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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Love is like life-merely longer.
Emily Dickinson
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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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Dreams are the subtle Dower That make us rich an Hour Then fling us poor Out of the purple door.
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We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
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I don't profess to be profound but I do lay claim to common sense.
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Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
Emily Dickinson
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Not 'Revelation'-'tis that waits/ But our unfurnished eyes
Emily Dickinson
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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.
Emily Dickinson
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The spreading wide my narrow Hands / To gather Paradise-.
Emily Dickinson
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The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.
Emily Dickinson
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An altered look about the hills A Tyrian light the village fills A wider sunrise in the dawn A deeper twilight on the lawn A print of a vermilion foot A purple finger on the slope A flippant fly upon the pane A spider at his trade again An added strut in chanticleer A flower expected everywhere.
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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.
Emily Dickinson