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Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.
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
Every
Affection
Like
Sadness
Bread
Street
Urchin
Sing
Starve
Paint
Unnoticed
Streets
Sad
Dream
Till
More quotes by Emily Dickinson
The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.
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The appetite for silence is seldom an acquired taste.
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Friends are nations in themselves.
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When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth for His mercy endureth forever, with confiding revulsion.
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Nothing more do I ask than to share with you the ecstasy and sacrament of my life.
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The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.
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To be alive──is Power.
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A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
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Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
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The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care
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The friend anguish reveals is the slowest forgot.
Emily Dickinson
God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
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I can wade Grief -- Whole Pools of it -- I'm used to that -- But the least push of Joy Breaks up my feet -- And I tip -- drunken -- Let no Pebble -- smile -- 'Twas the New Liquor -- That was all!
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His Labor is a Chant - His Idleness -a Tune - Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
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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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Wonder is not precisely knowing.
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The brain is wider than the sky.
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Sunrise: day's great progenitor.
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As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say The Summer than the Autumn, lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.
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Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
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