Quotes from Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

This is my letter to the WorldThat never wrote to Me—The simple News that Nature told—With tender Majesty.

Little Cousins, Called back.

A Drunkard cannot meet a CorkWithout a Revery—And so encountering a FlyThis January DayJamaicas of Remembrance stirThat send me reeling in.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

The thought beneath so slight a film—Is more distinctly seen—As laces just reveal the surge—Or Mists—the Apennine—

I died for Beauty—but was scarceAdjusted in the TombWhen One who died for Truth, was lainIn an adjoining Room—

I tasted—careless—then—I did not know the WineCame once a World—Did you?Oh, had you told me so—This Thirst would blister—easier—now

God gave a Loaf to every Bird—But just a Crumb—to Me—

Not with a Club, the Heart is brokenNor with a Stone—A Whip so small you could not see itI've knownTo lash the Magic CreatureTill it fell.

I taste a liquor never brewed,From Tankards scooped in Pearl—

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?

It was not Death, for I stood up,And all the Dead, lie down—

We never know how high we areTill we are called to riseAnd then, if we are true to planOur statures touch the skies.

I'm Nobody! Who are you?Are you—Nobody—too?Then there's a pair of us!Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know!How dreary—to be—Somebody!How public—like a Frog—To tell one's name—the livelong June—To an admiring Bog!

These are the days when Birds come back—A very few—a Bird or two—To take a backward look.These are the days when skies resumeThe old—old sophistries of June—A blue and gold mistake.

Much Madness is divinest Sense—To a discerning Eye—Much Sense—the starkest Madness—'Tis the MajorityIn this, as All, prevail—Assent—and you are sane—Demur—you're straightway dangerous—And handled with a Chain.

I asked no other thing—No other—was denied—I offered Being—for it—The Mighty Merchant sneered—Brazil? He twirled a Button—Without a glance my way—"But—Madam—is there nothing else—That We can show—Today?"

Alter! When the Hills do—Falter! When the SunQuestion if His GloryBe the Perfect One—Surfeit! When the DaffodilDoth of the Dew—Even as Herself—Sir—I will—of You—

I like to see it lap the Miles—And lick the Valleys up—

A narrow Fellow in the GrassOccasionally rides—

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last—I'm going, all along.

A Shade upon the mind there passesAs when on NoonA Cloud the mighty Sun encloses.

Faith--is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not.

My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them