Quote

You are nipping in the bud fancies which I let blossom. The shore is safer, but I love to buffet the sea - I can count the bitter wrecks here in these pleasant waters, and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!

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
Wind
Shore
Murmuring
Hear
Count
Buffets
Water
Fancy
Bud
Love
Pleasant
Blossom
Bitter
Wrecks
Sea
Safer
Nipping
Atheism
Winds
Buffet
Danger
Waters
Fancies

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Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
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Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind--
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The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed- Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified.
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Beauty is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.
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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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Remorse is cureless--the Disease Not even God--can heal-- For 'tis His institution--and The Adequate of Hell
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Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.
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You'll find it-when you try to die- The Easier to let go- For recollecting such as went- You could not spare-you know.
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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'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us? Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!
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Where thou art, that is home.
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It is better to be the hammer than the anvil.
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She died--this was the way she died And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
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The Service without Hope Is tenderest, I think-- ... There is no Diligence like that That knows not an Until
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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.
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