Best 485 quotes of Emily Dickinson on MyQuotes

A Bayonet's contrition is nothing to the dead.

A charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, And wishes, and denies,— Lest interview annul a want That image satisfies.

A Clock stopped-- Not the Mantel's-- Geneva's farthest skill Can't put the puppet bowing-- That just now dangled still

A color stands abroad on solitary hills that silence cannot overtake, but human nature feels.

A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, As Guest, that would be gone

Action is redemption.

A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become; Who, had they lived, had died, but when They died, vitality begun.

A dim capacity for wings demeans the dress I wear.

A Dominie in Gray-- Put gently up the evening Bars-- And led the flock away

Affection is like bread, unnoticed till we starve, and then we dream of it, and sing of it, and paint it, when every urchin in the street has more than he can eat.

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid? Not death. For who is he?

After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes — The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs — The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round — Of Ground, or Air, or Ought — A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone — This is the Hour of Lead — Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow — First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods

A light exists in Spring Not present in the year at any other period When March is scarcely here.

A Light exists in Spring Not present on the Year At any other period - When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels. It waits upon the Lawn, It shows the furthest Tree Upon the furthest Slope you know It almost speaks to you. Then as Horizons step Or Noons report away Without the Formula of sound It passes and we stay - A quality of loss Affecting our Content As Trade had suddenly encroached Upon a Sacrament.

A little madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown, Who ponders this tremendous scene-- This whole experiment in green, As if it were his own!

All things do go a-courting, In earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single But thee in His world so fair.

[A] mother is one to whom you hurry when you are troubled.

AMPLE make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair. Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise’ yellow noise Interrupt this ground.

A Murmur in the Trees - to note - Not loud enough - for Wind - A Star - not far enough to seek - Nor near enough - to find

An altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere.

And then--a Day as huge As Yesterdays in pairs, Unrolled its horror in my face-- Until it blocked my eyes

... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.

And you dropt, lost, When something broke-- And let you from a Dream

An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near.

Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among. Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying. Do the buds to them belong?

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

Answer July- Where is the Bee- Where is the Blush- Where is the Hay? Ah, said July- Where is the Seed- Where is the Bud- Where is the May- Answer Thee-Me-

A power of Butterfly must be - The Aptitude to fly Meadows of Majesty concedes And easy Sweeps of Sky -

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.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old.

'Arcturus' is his other name- I'd rather call him 'Star.' It's very mean of Science To go and interfere!

A shady friend for torrid days Is easier to find Than one of higher temperature For frigid hour of mind.

a sick room is at times too sacred a place for a friend's knock, timid as that is.

A soft Sea washed around the House A Sea of Summer Air And rose and fell the magic Planks That sailed without a care — For Captain was the Butterfly For Helmsman was the Bee And an entire universe For the delighted crew.

Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.

As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it an Affront The presence to concede Of one however lovely, not The one that we have loved - So we evade the charge of Years On one attempting shy The Circumvention of the Shaft Of Life's Declivity.

At least to pray is left - is left Oh Jesus - in the Air - I know not which thy chamber is - I'm knocking everywhere.

A Toad, can die of Light - Death is the Common Right Of Toads and Men

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

A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still. The smitten rock that gushes, The trampled steel that springs,, A cheek is always redder Just where the hectic stings Mirth is mail of anguish, In which its cautious arm Lest anybody spy the blood And, you're hurt exclaim.

A wounded deer leaps the highest.

Banish Air from Air Divide Light if you dare

Beauty crowds me till I die. Beauty, mercy have on me! Yet if I expire to-day Let it be in sight of thee!

Beauty is just a light switch away...'click!' Beauty is not caused. It is.

Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labour, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. Since then 'tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.