Quotes from Emily Dickinson

Not even God can heal; For 't is his institution, — The complement of hell.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,— The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!

To-morrow, night will come again

I felt a funeral in my brain

I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own.

A snake is summer's treason

And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there.

The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear.

I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm.

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They fling their speech By means of it in God's ear;

There is no frigate like a book.

death's stiff stare

Sorrow seems more general than it did, and not the estate of a few persons, since the war began; and if the anguish of others helped one with one's own, now would be many medicines.

There interposed a fly, With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me; And then the windows failed, and then I could not see to see.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,I shall not live in vain...

Un Mot gribouillé sans réfléchir sur une Page Peut stimuler un Å'il Quand enveloppé dans les plis de l'éternité Son Auteur Ridé reposera L'Infection se développe dans la phrase Nous pouvons inhaler le Désespoir Comme, venant du fond des Siècles, La Malaria -

A face devoid of love or grace, A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone Would feel as thoroughly at ease As were they old acquaintances, —

There's been a death in the opposite house

Nous fuyons son Visage d'autant plus que nous l'apprécions De peur que l'ineffable disgrâce de la vision Entache Notre Adoration

Es un raro placer que nos ahorma hallar un viejo libro con la ropa que usaba en aquel tiempo, creo que un privilegio. Cogerle de la mano venerable, calentarla en la nuestra y dar un paso o dos hacia el pasado, al tiempo en que era joven.

The thought behind I strove to join Unto the thought before, But sequence ravelled out of reach

Hay algo que me gusta en la agonía, y es que sé que es verdad; los hombres no simulan convulsiones, no imitan el dolor. Unos ojos se vidrian, y es la muerte. Imposible de fingir las gotas de sudor sobre la frente que la inhábil angustia va ensartando.

Perché nasca una prateria, bastano un trifoglio, un'ape e un sogno. E se non ci sono le api e il trifoglio, può bastare anche il sogno.