Quotes from Emily Dickinson

I took my power in my hand. And went against the world; 'T was not so much as David had, But I was twice as bold. I aimed my pebble, but myself Was all the one that fell. Was it Goliath was too large, Or only I too small?

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

Beauty crowds me till I die. Emily Dickinson

XXXVII. The dying need but little, dear, —    A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face    To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret,    And certainly that one No color in the rainbow    Perceives when you are gone.

To attempt to speak of what has been, would be impossible. Abyss has no Biographer -

The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain.

Non esiste un vascello veloce come un libro per portarci in terre lontane.

Life is but life, and death but death! Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath! And if, indeed, I fail, At least to know the worst is sweet. Defeat means nothing but defeat, No drearier can prevail!

A letter always feels to me like Immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

Then I will not repine Knowing that bird of mine Though flown shall in a distant tree Bright melody for me Return.

That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love

The whole of Immortality Secreted by a star.

Eternity, Presumption The instant I perceive That you who were Existence Yourself forgot to live

You have seen flowers at morning satisfied with the dew, and those same sweet flowers at noon with their heads bowed in anguish before the mighty sun; think you these thirsty blossoms will now need nought but— dew ? No, they will cry for sunlight, and pine for the burning noon, tho' it scorches them, scathes them...

To be a Flower, is profound Responsibility

I read my sentence - steadily . . .

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir,— A presence of departed acts At window and at door. Its past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch. Remorse is cureless,—the disease Not even God can heal; For 't is His institution,— The complement of hell.

Estranged from Beauty—none can be— For Beauty is Infinity— And power to be finite ceased Before Identity was leased.

Down Time's quaint stream Without an oar, We are enforced to sail, Our Port—a secret— Our Perchance—a gale. What Skipper would Incur the risk, What Buccaneer would ride, Without a surety from the wind Or schedule of the tide?

I've got a Tomahawk in my side but that don't hurt me much.

The name – of it – is "Autumn" – The hue – of it – is Blood

Superiority to fate Is difficult to learn. 'Tis not conferred by any, But possible to earn A pittance at a time, Until, to her surprise, The soul with strict economy Subsists till Paradise.

I had a daily bliss I half indifferent viewed, Till sudden I perceived it stir,— It grew as I pursued, Till when, around a crag, It wasted from my sight, Enlarged beyond my utmost scope, I learned its sweetness right.

Her Grace is all she has - And that, so least displays - One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.