Emily Dickinson, fully Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
I died for beauty but was scarce adjusted in the tomb, when one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? For beauty, I replied. And I for truth, the two are one; We brethren are, he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, we talked between the rooms, until the moss had reached our lips, and covered up our names.
I imagine, therefore I belong and am free.
I would like more sisters, that the taking out of one, might not leave such stillness.
It is finished, is never said of us.
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
Art is a house that tries to be haunted.
Dreams â€” are well â€” but Waking's better, if One wake at Morn â€” if One wake at Midnight â€” better â€” dreaming â€” of the Dawn.
Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
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.
I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.
I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; if I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.
It might be lonelier without the Loneliness - Iâ€™m so accustomed to my Fate -Perhaps the Other - Peace - Would interrupt the Dark - and crowd the little Room - too scant - by Cubits - to contain the Sacrament - of Him - I am not used to Hope - It might intrude upon - Its sweet parade - blaspheme the place - Ordained to Suffering - It might be easier to fail - with Land in Sight - than gain - my Blue Peninsula - to perish - of Delight -
As he, defeated, dying, on whose forbidden ear the distant strains of triumph break, agonized and clear.
Drowning is not so pitiful as the attempt to rise.
For love is immortality.
How do most people live without any thought? There are many people in the world,--you must have noticed them in the street,--how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
I don't profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.
I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You'll know it by the rows of stars around it's forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats. Oh! Find it, sir, for me!
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
It was a quiet way - he asked if I was his - I made no answer of the tongue but answer of the eyes - and then he bore me on before this mortal noise with swiftness, as of chariots and distance, as of wheels. This world did drop away as acres from the feet of one that leaneth from balloon upon an ether street. The gulf behind was not, the continents were new - eternity was due. No seasons were to us - it was not night nor morn - but sunrise stopped upon the place and fastened in dawn.
A power of Butterfly must be - the Aptitude to fly. Meadows of Majesty concedes and easy Sweeps of Sky.
Beauty crowds me till I die, beauty, mercy have on me! But if I expire today, let it be in sight of thee
Dying is a wild night and a new road.