Poems by Emily Dickinson quotes

A word is dead

A wounded deer leaps highest,

Adrift! A little boat adrift! Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? After a hundred years All overgrown by cunning moss, Alter? When the hills do. Ample make this bed. An altered look about the hills;

Come! My dazzled face Mine by the right of the white election! Mine enemy is growing old, — Morning is the place for dew, Morns like these we parted;

Much madness is divinest sense

Musicians wrestle everywhere: My cocoon tightens, colors tease, My country need not change her gown, My friend must be a bird, My life closed twice before its close; My river runs to thee:

'T is so much joy! 'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou 'T is whiter than an Indian pipe, Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,

To fight aloud is very brave,

To hang our head ostensibly, To hear an oriole sing To help our bleaker parts To know just how he suffered would be dear;

Our lives are Swiss, — Our share of night to bear,

Pain has an element of blank;

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower? Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Pink, small, and punctual, Pompless no life can pass away; Poor little heart!

… earth is short, I shall know why, when time is over, I should have been too glad, I see, I should not dare to leave my friend, I sing to use the waiting, I started early, took my dog, I stepped from plank to plank

I taste a liquor never brewed,

I think just how my shape will rise I think the hemlock likes to stand I took my power in my hand.

… can stop one heart from breaking, If I may have it when it's dead If I should die, If I shouldn't be alive If anybody's friend be dead, If recollecting were forgetting, If the foolish call them 'flowers,' If tolling bell I ask the cause.

If you were coming in the fall,

Immortal is an ample word In lands I never saw, they say, Is Heaven a physician? Is bliss, then, such abyss It can't be summer, — that got through;

… their backs together laid, The cricket sang, The daisy follows soft the sun, The day came slow, till five o'clock, The distance that the dead have gone The dying need but little, dear, — The farthest thunder that I heard The gentian weaves her fringes,

The grass so little has to do,

— The grave my little cottage is, The heart asks pleasure first, The last night that she lived, The leaves, like women, interchange The moon is distant from the sea, The moon was but a chin of gold The morns are meeker than they were, …

A bird came down the walk: A charm invests a face A clock stopped — not the mantel's; A death-blow is a life-blow to some A deed knocks first at thought, A dew sufficed itself A door just opened on a street —

A drop fell on the apple tree,

A face devoid of love or grace, A lady red upon the hill A light exists in spring A little road not made of man, A long, long sleep, a famous sleep A modest lot, a fame petite, A murmur in the trees to note, …

… the opposite house There's something quieter than sleep These are the days when birds come back, They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, They say that 'time assuages,' — They won't frown always, — some sweet day This is my letter to the world,

This is the land the sunset washes,

This merit hath the worst, — This was in the white of the year, This world is not conclusion; Though I get home how late, how late!

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower? Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Pink, small, and punctual, Pompless no life can pass away; Poor little heart! Portraits are to daily faces Prayer is the little implement

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Read, sweet, how others strove, Remembrance has a rear and front, — Remorse is memory awake, Safe in their alabaster chambers, She died, — this was the way she died;

I went to heaven, — I went to thank her, I wish I knew that woman's name, I wonder if the sepulchre I worked for chaff, and earning wheat I years had been from home,

I'll tell you how the sun rose, —

I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs; I'm nobody! Who are you? I'm wife; I've finished that, I've got an arrow here;

The reticent volcano keeps The robin is the one The rose did caper on her cheek, The show is not the show, The skies can't keep their secret!

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

The soul selects her own society, The soul should always stand ajar, The soul unto itself The spider as an artist The springtime's pallid landscape The stimulus, beyond the grave The sun just touched the morning; The sun kept setting, setting still;

Lay this laurel on the one Let down the bars, O Death! Let me not mar that perfect dream Life, and Death, and Giants Like mighty footlights burned the red Like trains of cars on tracks of plush

Look back on time with kindly eyes,

Love is anterior to life, Me! Come! My dazzled face Mine by the right of the white election! Mine enemy is growing old, — Morning is the place for dew, Morns like these we parted; Much madness is divinest sense Musicians wrestle everywhere:

I lived on dread; to those who know

I lost a world the other day.

I many times thought peace had come, I meant to find her when I came;

The mushroom is the elf of plants,

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

The night was wide, and furnished scant The one that could repeat the summer day The only ghost I ever saw The past is such a curious creature, The pedigree of honey The rat is the concisest tenant.

Heaven is what I cannot reach! Her final summer was it, High from the earth I heard a bird; His bill an auger is, Hope is a subtle glutton;

Hope is the thing with feathers

How dare the robins sing, How happy is the little stone How many times these low feet staggered, How still the bells in steeples stand, How the old mountains drip with sunset, I asked no other thing, I breathed enough to learn the trick, I …

Could I but ride indefinite, Could mortal lip divine

Dare you see a soul at the white heat?

Dear March, come in! Death is a dialogue between Death is like the insect Death sets a thing significant Delayed till she had ceased to know, Delight becomes pictorial Departed to the judgment, Did the harebell loose her girdle Doubt me, my dim companion!

I lived on dread; to those who know I lost a world the other day. I many times thought peace had come, I meant to find her when I came; I meant to have but modest needs, I measure every grief I meet

I never hear the word "escape"

I never lost as much but twice, I never saw a moor, I noticed people disappeared, I read my sentence steadily, I reason, earth is short, I shall know why, when time is over, I should have been too glad, I see, I should not …

… evanescence A sepal, petal, and a thorn A shady friend for torrid days A sickness of this world it most occasions A sloop of amber slips away A solemn thing it was, I said, A something in a summer's day, A spider sewed at night

A thought went up my mind to-day

A throe upon the features A toad can die of light! A word is dead A wounded deer leaps highest, Adrift! A little boat adrift! Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? After a hundred years All overgrown by cunning moss, Alter? When the hills do.

… not dare to leave my friend, I sing to use the waiting, I started early, took my dog, I stepped from plank to plank I taste a liquor never brewed, I think just how my shape will rise I think the hemlock likes to stand

I took my power in my hand.

I went to heaven, — I went to thank her, I wish I knew that woman's name, I wonder if the sepulchre I worked for chaff, and earning wheat I years had been from home, I'll tell you how the sun rose, — I'm ceded, …

A bird came down the walk: A charm invests a face A clock stopped — not the mantel's; A death-blow is a life-blow to some

A deed knocks first at thought,

A dew sufficed itself A door just opened on a street — A drop fell on the apple tree, A face devoid of love or grace, A lady red upon the hill A light exists in spring A little road not made of man, A …

Come! My dazzled face Mine by the right of the white election!

Mine enemy is growing old, —

Morning is the place for dew, Morns like these we parted; Much madness is divinest sense Musicians wrestle everywhere: My cocoon tightens, colors tease, My country need not change her gown, My friend must be a bird, My life closed twice before its close;

Poor little heart! Portraits are to daily faces Prayer is the little implement Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Read, sweet, how others strove, Remembrance has a rear and front, —

Remorse is memory awake,

Safe in their alabaster chambers, She died, — this was the way she died;

I lived on dread; to those who know I lost a world the other day.

I many times thought peace had come,

I meant to find her when I came;

… envy seas whereon he rides, I felt a clearing in my mind I felt a funeral in my brain, I found the phrase to every thought I gained it so, I gave myself to him, I had a daily bliss I had a guinea golden;

I had been hungry all the years;

I had no cause to be awake, I had no time to hate, because I have a king who does not speak; I have no life but this, I have not told my garden yet, I heard a fly buzz when I died;

I went to heaven, — I went to thank her, I wish I knew that woman's name, I wonder if the sepulchre I worked for chaff, and earning wheat

I years had been from home,

I'll tell you how the sun rose, — I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs; I'm nobody! Who are you? I'm wife; I've finished that, I've got an arrow here;

The mushroom is the elf of plants, The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

The night was wide, and furnished scant

The one that could repeat the summer day The only ghost I ever saw The past is such a curious creature, The pedigree of honey The rat is the concisest tenant.

A bird came down the walk:

A charm invests a face

A clock stopped — not the mantel's;

… but little, dear, — The farthest thunder that I heard The gentian weaves her fringes, The grass so little has to do, — The grave my little cottage is, The heart asks pleasure first, The last night that she lived, The leaves, like women, interchange

The moon is distant from the sea,

The moon was but a chin of gold The morns are meeker than they were, The mountain sat upon the plain The murmur of a bee The murmuring of bees has ceased; The mushroom is the elf of plants, The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

The reticent volcano keeps The robin is the one The rose did caper on her cheek, The show is not the show,

The skies can't keep their secret!

The sky is low, the clouds are mean, The soul selects her own society, The soul should always stand ajar, The soul unto itself The spider as an artist The springtime's pallid landscape The stimulus, beyond the grave The sun just touched the morning;

… A face devoid of love or grace, A lady red upon the hill A light exists in spring A little road not made of man, A long, long sleep, a famous sleep A modest lot, a fame petite, A murmur in the trees to note,

A narrow fellow in the grass

A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is A route of evanescence A sepal, petal, and a thorn A shady friend for torrid days A sickness of this world it most occasions A sloop of amber slips away A solemn …

The sun kept setting, setting still; The thought beneath so slight a film The way I read a letter 's this: The wind begun to rock the grass Their height in heaven comforts not, There came a day at summer's full

There came a wind like a bugle;

There is a flower that bees prefer, There is a shame of nobleness There is a word There is no frigate like a book There's a certain slant of light, There's been a death in the opposite house There's something quieter than sleep These are …

Heaven is what I cannot reach! Her final summer was it, High from the earth I heard a bird; His bill an auger is, Hope is a subtle glutton; Hope is the thing with feathers How dare the robins sing,

How happy is the little stone

How many times these low feet staggered, How still the bells in steeples stand, How the old mountains drip with sunset, I asked no other thing, I breathed enough to learn the trick, I bring an unaccustomed wine I can wade grief, I cannot live …

The sun kept setting, setting still; The thought beneath so slight a film The way I read a letter 's this:

The wind begun to rock the grass

Their height in heaven comforts not, There came a day at summer's full There came a wind like a bugle;

… my eye put out, Before the ice is in the pools, Before you thought of spring, Belshazzar had a letter, — Bereaved of all, I went abroad, Besides the autumn poets sing, Blazing in gold and quenching in purple, Bless God, he went as soldiers,

Bring me the sunset in a cup,

Come slowly, Eden! Could I but ride indefinite, Could mortal lip divine Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Dear March, come in!

The great storm is over! God gave a loaf to every bird,

God made a little gentian;

God permits industrious angels Going to heaven! "Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him — Good night! which put the candle out?

I had been hungry all the years; I had no cause to be awake, I had no time to hate, because I have a king who does not speak; I have no life but this,

I have not told my garden yet,

I heard a fly buzz when I died;

… they On such a night, or such a night, On the bleakness of my lot On this long storm the rainbow rose, On this wondrous sea, One blessing had I, than the rest One day is there of the series One dignity delays for all,

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,

One of the ones that Midas touched, Our journey had advanced; Our lives are Swiss, — Our share of night to bear, Pain has an element of blank; Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower?

It dropped so low in my regard It is an honorable thought, It makes no difference abroad, It might be easier It sifts from leaden sieves, It sounded as if the streets were running, It struck me every day It tossed and tossed, —

It was not death, for I stood up,

It was too late for man, It's like the light, — It's such a little thing to weep, Just lost when I was saved! Lay this laurel on the one Let down the bars, O Death!

Mine enemy is growing old, — Morning is the place for dew, Morns like these we parted; Much madness is divinest sense Musicians wrestle everywhere: My cocoon tightens, colors tease, My country need not change her gown, My friend must be a bird,

My life closed twice before its close;

My river runs to thee:

We cover thee, sweet face. We learn in the retreating We like March, his shoes are purple,

We never know how high we are

We never know we go, — when we are going We outgrow love like other things We play at paste, We thirst at first, — 't is Nature's act; Went up a year this evening! What if I say I shall not wait?

Experiment to me Exultation is the going Far from love the Heavenly Father Farther in summer than the birds, Fate slew him, but he did not drop; Father, I bring thee not myself, — Few get enough, — enough is one;

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.

For each ecstatic instant Forbidden fruit a flavor has Frequently the woods are pink, From all the jails the boys and girls From cocoon forth a butterfly From us she wandered now a year, Given in marriage unto thee, Glee! The great storm is over!

… did always love, That is solemn we have ended, — That short, potential stir That such have died enables us The bat is dun with wrinkled wings The bee is not afraid of me, The body grows outside, — The bone that has no marrow;

The brain is wider than the sky,

The brain within its groove The bustle in a house The butterfly's assumption-gown, The clouds their backs together laid, The cricket sang, The daisy follows soft the sun, The day came slow, till five o'clock, The distance that the dead have gone The dying need …

The mushroom is the elf of plants, The nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The night was wide, and furnished scant The one that could repeat the summer day The only ghost I ever saw

The past is such a curious creature,

The pedigree of honey The rat is the concisest tenant. The reticent volcano keeps The robin is the one The rose did caper on her cheek, The show is not the show, The skies can't keep their secret!

Wild nights! Will there really be a morning? Within my reach!

You cannot put a fire out;

You left me, sweet, two legacies, — You've seen balloons set, haven't you? Your riches taught me poverty.

… read my sentence steadily, I reason, earth is short, I shall know why, when time is over, I should have been too glad, I see, I should not dare to leave my friend, I sing to use the waiting, I started early, took my dog,

I stepped from plank to plank

I taste a liquor never brewed, I think just how my shape will rise I think the hemlock likes to stand I took my power in my hand.

My worthiness is all my doubt, Nature rarer uses yellow Nature, the gentlest mother, New feet within my garden go, No brigadier throughout the year No rack can torture me, Not any higher stands the grave Not in this world to see his face

Not knowing when the dawn will come

Not with a club the heart is broken, Of all the souls that stand create Of all the sounds despatched abroad, Of bronze and blaze Of tribulation these are they On such a night, or such a night, On the bleakness of my lot On …

Went up a year this evening! What if I say I shall not wait? What inn is this

What mystery pervades a well!

What soft, cherubic creatures When I hoped I feared, When I was small, a woman died.

Success is counted sweetest Summer for thee grant I may be Superfluous were the sun Superiority to fate Surgeons must be very careful Sweet hours have perished here;

Sweet is the swamp with its secrets,

Taken from men this morning, Talk with prudence to a beggar That I did always love, That is solemn we have ended, — That short, potential stir That such have died enables us The bat is dun with wrinkled wings The bee is not afraid …

… that I heard The gentian weaves her fringes, The grass so little has to do, — The grave my little cottage is, The heart asks pleasure first, The last night that she lived, The leaves, like women, interchange The moon is distant from the sea,

The moon was but a chin of gold

The morns are meeker than they were, The mountain sat upon the plain The murmur of a bee The murmuring of bees has ceased; The mushroom is the elf of plants, The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.

… is a word There is no frigate like a book There's a certain slant of light, There's been a death in the opposite house There's something quieter than sleep These are the days when birds come back, They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,

They say that 'time assuages,' —

They won't frown always, — some sweet day This is my letter to the world, This is the land the sunset washes, This merit hath the worst, — This was in the white of the year, This world is not conclusion;

The reticent volcano keeps The robin is the one The rose did caper on her cheek, The show is not the show, The skies can't keep their secret! The sky is low, the clouds are mean, The soul selects her own society,

The soul should always stand ajar,

The soul unto itself The spider as an artist The springtime's pallid landscape The stimulus, beyond the grave The sun just touched the morning; The sun kept setting, setting still; The thought beneath so slight a film The way I read a letter 's this: