Emily Dickinson, fully Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --

One need not be a chamber to be haunted; one need not be a house; the brain has corridors surpassing material place.

Soul, wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard hundreds have lost, indeed, but tens have won all. Angels' breathless ballot lingers to record thee; imps in eager caucus raffle for my soul.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies? How still the riddle lies!

Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.

Lest Love should value less what loss would value more, had it the stricken privilege --- it cherishes before.

Much madness is divinest sense to a discerning eye; much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority in this, as all, prevails....Much madness is divinest sense to a discerning eye; much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority in this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; demur,—you ’re straightway dangerous, and handled with a chain.

Open me carefully.

Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host who took the flag to-day can tell the definition, so clear, of victory, as he, defeated, dying, on whose forbidden ear the distant strains of triumph break, agonized and clear.

The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.

There is a pain – so utter – it swallows substance up – then covers the Abyss with Trance – so Memory can step around – across – opon it – as one within a Swoon – goes safely – where an open eye – would drop Him – Bone by Bone.

Till I loved I never liked enough.

We do not play on Graves— Because there isn't Room— Besides—it isn't even—it slants And People come— And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We're fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as far as Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how far It is—Occasionally—

You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself.

Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.

My best Acquaintances are those with Whom I spoke no Word.

Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.

Susie, what shall I do - there is'nt room enough; not half enough, to hold what I was going to say. Wont you tell the man who makes sheets of paper, that I hav'nt the slightest respect for him!

The only secret people keep is immortality.

There is a ship as fast as a book to take us lands away.

Till I loved I never lived.

We dream — it is good we are dreaming — it would hurt us — were we awake —but since it is playing — kill us, and we are playing — shriek — What harm? Men die — externally —it is a truth — of Blood —but we — are dying in Drama —and Drama — is never dead — cautious — We jar each other —and either — open the eyes — lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake —and the livid Surprise. Cool us to Shafts of Granite —with just an Age — and Name — and perhaps a phrase in Egyptian — it's prudenter — to dream —