Quotes from Emily Dickinson

We never know we go,—when we are going We jest and shut the door; Fate following behind us bolts it, And we accost no more.

Earth is crammed with Heaven.

There is a pain – so utter – It swallows substance up – Then covers the Abyss with Trance – So Memory can step Around – across – opon it – As one within a Swoon – Goes safely – where an open eye – Would drop Him – Bone by Bone.

Sweet hour, blessed hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper goodbye again.

La esperanza es esa cosa con plumas que se posa en el alma y canta sin parar.

Over the fence— Strawberries— grow— Over the fence— I could climb— if I tried, I know— Berries are nice! But— if I stained my Apron— God would certainly scold! Oh, dear, — I guess if He were a Boy— He'd— climb— if He could!

Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea, And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie.

We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

Nature is what we know / Yet have not art to say / So impotent our wisdom is / To her simplicity.

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!

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

It is finished, is never said of us

A not admitting of the wound Until it grew so wide That all my Life had entered it

The soul should always stand ajar.

Forgive me if I never visit. I am from the fields, you know, and while quite at home with the dandelions, make a sorry figure in a drawing room.

Where Thou art - that - is Home.

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

Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play -- In accidental power -- The blonde Assassin passes on -- The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.

When Jesus tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is 'acquainted with Grief', we listen, for that also is an Acquaintance of our own.

There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up; The covers the abyss with a trance So memory can step around, across, upon it.

Love can do all but raise the Dead I doubt if even that From such a giant were withheld Were flesh equivalent But love is tired and must sleep, And hungry and must graze And so abets the shining Fleet Till it is out of gaze.

To wait an Hour—is long— If Love be just beyond— To wait Eternity—is short— If Love reward the end—

God is indeed a jealous God — He cannot bear to see That we had rather not with Him But with each other play.