Quote

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn Men eat of it and die.

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
Time
Fame
Shifting
Crumbs
Whose
Ironic
Fickle
Second
Culinary
Farmer
Food
Guests
Guest
Dies
Farmers
Crow
Upon
Table
Plate
Inspect
Past
Tables
Plates
Flap
Men
Cooking
Corn
Crows

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Fortune befriends the bold.
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Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
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September's Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets - Crows - and Retrospects And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming - An Innuendo sear That makes the Heart put up its Fun And turn Philosopher.
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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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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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What Soft--Cherubic Creatures-- These Gentlewomen are-- One would as soon assault a Plush-- Or violate a Star
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Publication - is the auction of the mind.
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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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Unable are the Loved to die For Love is Immortality, Nay, it is Deity - Unable they that love - to die For Love reforms Vitality Into Divinity.
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Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.
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Common sense is almost as omniscient as God.
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A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.
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PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there's a word to lift your hat to... to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that's the genius behind poetry.
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[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.
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The Truth never flaunted a sign.
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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.
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The abdication of Belief Makes the Behavior small- Better an ignis fatuus Than no illume at all.
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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.
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
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