Emily Dickinson, fully Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

No ship takes us to distant lands better than a book.

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.

The Forever consists of many nows.

The truth must dazzle gradually. Or every man be blind.

This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me,-- the simple news that Nature told, with tender majesty. Her message is committed to hands I cannot see; for love of her, sweet countrymen, judge tenderly of me!

To shut your eyes is to travel.

Who counts the shells in the night to see that you do not miss any?

It's all I have to bring today this and my heart beside this and my heart and all the fields and all the meadows wide be sure to count should I forget someone the sum could tell this and my heart and all the bees which in the clovers dwell.

Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge --the Palate of the Hate departs – if any would avenge. Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- it is a faded Meat -- anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'tis starving makes it fat.

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads were toward eternity.

The Heart is the Capital of the Mind— The Mind is a single State— The Heart and the Mind together make A single Continent— One—is the Population— Numerous enough— This ecstatic Nation Seek—it is Yourself.

The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, night unto day is married, morn unto eventide, earth a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, and Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.

This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, as freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---

Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.

Who has not found the heaven below will fail of it above. God's residence is next to mine, His furniture is love.

Judge tenderly of me.

Mirth is the Mail of Anguish --

Of 'shunning Men and Women' — they talk of Hallowed things, aloud — and embarrass my Dog — He and I dont object to them, if they'll exist their side. I think Carlo would please you — He is dumb, and brave — I think you would like the Chestnut Tree, I met in my walk. It hit my notice suddenly — and I thought the Skies were in Blossom —

Softened by Time's consummate plush, how sleek the woe appears that threatened childhood's citadel and undermined the years! Bisected now by bleaker griefs, we envy the despair that devastated childhood's realm, so easy to repair.

The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care.

Then I will not repine knowing that bird of mine though flown shall in a distant tree bright melody for me return.

This quiet Dust was Gentlemen and Ladies, and Lads and Girls; was laughter and ability and sighing, and frocks and curls. This passive place a Summer's nimble mansion, where Bloom and Bees fulfilled their Oriental Circuit, then ceased like these.

Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.