Emily Dickinson

I dwell in possibility...

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the words without the tune, and never stops at all.

I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.

There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--

A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.

If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching,
or cool one Pain,
Or help one fainting Robin
into his Nest again,
I shall not live in Vain.

Anger as soon as fed is dead - 'Tis starving makes it fat.

That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.

Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

I am nobody, who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then that's a pair of us!

My life closed twice before its' close-
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me. So huge, so hopeless to concieve As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.

Anger as soon as fed is dead-
'Tis starving makes it fat.

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without words
And never stops at all.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul.
And sings the tune
Without the words,
and never stops at all.

I dwell in possiblities.

Becuase I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.

My friends are my estate.

Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.

They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.

We turn not older with years, but newer every day.

Anger as soon as fed is dead. 'Tis starving makes it fat.

A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.

Beauty is not caused. It is.

Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

Forever is composed of nows.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.

How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.

Luck is not chance, it is toil. Fortune is expensive smile is earned.

Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.

Remember if you marry for beauty, thou bindest thyself all thy life for that which perchance, will neither last nor please thee one year: and when thou hast it, it will be to thee of no price at all.

Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.