Quotes About Reflection

We all have moments with the dust, but the dew is given.

This was in the white of the year, That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think As daisies now to be seen. Looking back is best that is left, Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect's half, Sometimes almost more.

Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.

To wander now is my abode; To rest,—to rest would be A privilege of hurricane To memory and me.

The dying need but little, dear, —    A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face    To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret,    And certainly that one No color in the rainbow    Perceives when you are gone.

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

XXXVII. The dying need but little, dear, —    A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face    To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret,    And certainly that one No color in the rainbow    Perceives when you are gone.

I read my sentence - steadily . . .

In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down, Whose bonnets touch the firmament, Whose sandals touch the town, ? Meek at whose everlasting feet A myriad daisies play. Which, sir, are you, and which am I. Upon an August day?

Emerging from an Abyss and entering it again—that is Life, is it not?

Did you ever read one of her Poems backward, because the plunge from the front overturned you? I sometimes (often have, many times) have - A something overtakes the Mind.

Who robbed the woods, The trusting woods? The unsuspecting trees Brought out their burrs and mosses His fantasy to please. He scanned their trinkets, curious, He grasped, he bore away. What will the solemn hemlock, What will the fir-tree say?

I notice where Death has been introduced, he frequently calls, making it desirable to forestall his advances.

Solo busco una vida que dejé, ¿sigue ahí todavía?»

How glad I am that spring has come, and how it calms my mind when wearied with study to walk out in the green fields and beside the pleasant streams in which South Hadley is rich! ... The older I grow, the more do I love spring and spring flowers. Is it not so with you? (May 16, 1848 to Abiah Root)

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love ; but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year. And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect.

Belshazzar had a letter,— He never had but one; Belshazzar's correspondent Concluded and begun In that immortal copy The conscience of us all Can read without its glasses On revelation's wall.

Emily Dickinson

How dreary—to be—Somebody!

Sarei forse più sola senza la mia solitudine. Sono abituata al mio destino.

With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain

No weight nor mass nor beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought.

I find myself still softly searching for my delinquent palaces.