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Emily Dickinson Quotes

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Famous Emily Dickinson Quotes

“A precious, mouldering pleasure ’tis To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old”

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Book:The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
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“I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the streets alone- often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die.”

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Book:Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson
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“Oh Susie, I often think that I will try to tell you how very dear you are, and how I'm watching for you, but the words won't come, though the tears will, and I sit down disappointed. Yet, darling, you know it all-- then why do I seek to tell you? I do not know. In thinking of those I love, my reason is all gone from me, and I do fear sometimes that I must make a hospital for the hopelessly insane, and chain myself up there so I won't injure you.”

PoetryLettersEmily Dickinson
Book:Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson
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“Because that you are going And never coming back And I, however absolute, May overlook your Track - Because that Death is final, However first it be, This instant be suspended Above Mortality - Significance that each has lived The other to detect Discovery not God himself Could now annihilate Eternity, Presumption The instant I perceive That you, who were Existence Yourself forgot to live - The “Life that is” will then have been A thing I never knewAs Paradise fictitious Until the Realm of you- The “Life that is to be,” to me, A Residence too plain Unless m my Redeemer’s Face I recognize your own - Of Immortality who doubts He may exchange with me Curtailed by your obscuring Face Of everything but He - Of Heaven and Hell I also yield The Right to reprehend To whoso would commute this Face For his less priceless Friend. If “God is Love” as he admits We think that he must be Because he is a “jealous God” He tells us certainly If “All is possible widi” him As he besides concedes He will refund us finally Our confiscated Gods -”

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Book:Poems of Emily Dickinson
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“Because that you are going And never coming back And I, however absolute, May overlook your Track - Because that Death is final, However first it be, This instant be suspended Above Mortality - Significance that each has lived The other to detect Discovery not God himself Could now annihilate Eternity, Presumption The instant I perceive That you, who were Existence Yourself forgot to live - The “Life that is” will then have been A thing I never knewAs Paradise fictitious Until the Realm of you- The “Life that is to be,” to me, A Residence too plain Unless in my Redeemer’s Face I recognize your own - Of Immortality who doubts He may exchange with me Curtailed by your obscuring Face Of everything but He - Of Heaven and Hell I also yield The Right to reprehend To whoso would commute this Face For his less priceless Friend.”

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Book:The Poems of Emily Dickinson
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“Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine, Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine! Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain, For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain. All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair! The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one, Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun; The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree. The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small, None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball; The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives, And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves; The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won, And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son. The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune, The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon, Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows, No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose. The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide; Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue. Now to the application, to the reading of the roll, To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul: Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone, Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap'st what thou hast sown. Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long, And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song? There's Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair, And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair! Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree; Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb, And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time! Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower, And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower — And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum — And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!”

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Book:The Complete Poems from Emily Dickinson:
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“The Daisy follows soft the Sun— And when his golden walk is done— Sits shyly at his feet— He—waking—finds the flower there— Wherefore—Marauder—art thou here? Because, Sir, love is sweet! We are the flower—Thou the Sun! Forgive us, if as days decline— We nearer steal to thee! Enamored of the parting West— The peace—the flight—the Amethyst— Night's possibility!”

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Book:The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
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