Emily Dickinson Quotations | Page 3

She died--this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.

The only secret people keep is immortality.

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

Forever is composed of Nows— 'Tis not a different time— Except for Infiniteness— And Latitude of Home

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn; Men eat of it and die.

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

Sunrise: day's great progenitor.

How frugal is the chariot that bears a human soul.

The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.