Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet.
Saying nothing. . . sometimes says the most.
I was almost persuaded to be a Christian. I thought I never again could be thoughtless and worldly. But I soon forgot my morning prayer or else it was irksome to me. One by one my old habits returned and I cared less for religion than ever.
November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still. . . nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.
They say that “Time assuages” - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady
A Deed knocks first at Thought And then - it knocks at Will - That is the manufacturing spot.
You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E'en through the darkest night!
I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
To travel far, there is no better ship than a book.
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn; Men eat of it and die.
My life closed twice before its close
I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.
Fearless--the cobweb swings from the ceiling-- Indolent Housewife--in Daisies--lain!
Hope is a thing with feathers
God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.
You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.
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.
There is always one thing to be grateful for - that one is one's self and not somebody else.