EMILY DICKINSON, letter to T. W. Higginson, winter 1871
- A word is dead
- When it is said,
- Some say.
- I say it just
- Begins to live
- That day.
EMILY DICKINSON, "A Word is Dead"
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to T. W. Higginson, c. 1870
My friends are my "estate." Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them.
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to Samuel Bowles, Aug. 1858 or '59
- Much madness is divinest sense
- To a discerning eye;
- Much sense the starkest madness.
- 'Tis the majority
- In this, as all, prevails.
- Assent, and you are sane;
- Demur — you're straightway dangerous,
- And handled with a chain.
EMILY DICKINSON, "Much Madness is divinest Sense"
- That it will never come again
- Is what makes life so sweet
EMILY DICKINSON, "That it will never come again"
- Portraits are to daily faces
- As an evening west
- To a fine, pedantic sunshine
- In a satin vest.
EMILY DICKINSON, "Portraits are to daily faces"
How do most people live without any thoughts? There are many people in the world — you must have noticed them in the street — how do they live? How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning?
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to T. W. Higginson, 1870
- Who has not found the Heaven — below —
- Will fail of it above —
EMILY DICKINSON, "Who has not found the Heaven below"
- There is no frigate like a book
- To take us lands away,
- Nor any coursers like a page
- Of prancing poetry.
- This traverse may the poorest take
- Without oppress of toll;
- How frugal is the chariot
- That bears a human soul!
EMILY DICKINSON, "There is no frigate like a book"
Enough is so vast a sweetness, I suppose it never occurs, only pathetic counterfeits.
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to T. W. Higginson, Aug. 1870
Saying nothing ... sometimes says the most.
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to Mrs. Joseph A. Sweetser, Jan. 1874
- "Faith" is a fine invention
- When Gentlemen can see —
- But Microscopes are prudent
- In an Emergency.
EMILY DICKINSON, "Faith is a fine invention"
- 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 certainty that one
- No color in the rainbow
- Perceive, when you are gone.
EMILY DICKINSON, "The Dying need but little, Dear"
Nature is a haunted house — but Art — a House that tries to be haunted.
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to T. W. Higginson, 1876
- 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.
EMILY DICKINSON, "Fame is a fickle food"
- Love — is anterior to Life —
- Posterior — to Death —
- Initial of Creation, and
- The Exponent of Earth.
EMILY DICKINSON, "Love is anterior to Life"
In such a porcelain life one likes to be sure that all is well lest one stumble upon one's hopes in a pile of broken crockery.
EMILY DICKINSON, letter to Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bowles, Aug. 1858?
- The butterfly obtains
- But little sympathy,
- Though favorably mentioned
- In Entomology.
- Because he travels freely
- And wears a proper coat,
- The circumspect are certain
- That he is dissolute.
- Had he the homely scutcheon of modest industry,
- 'Twere fitter certifying for immortality.
EMILY DICKINSON, "The butterfly obtains but little sympathy"
- I never saw a moor,
- I never saw the sea;
- Yet know I how the heather looks,
- And what a wave must be.
- I never spoke with God,
- Nor visited in heaven;
- Yet certain am I of the spot
- As if the chart were given.
EMILY DICKINSON, "I never saw a Moor"
- Death's Waylaying not the sharpest
- Of the thefts of Time —
- There Marauds a sorer Robber,
- Silence — is his name —
- No Assault, nor any Menace
- Doth betoken him.
- But from Life's consummate Cluster —
- He supplants the Balm.
EMILY DICKINSON, "Death's Waylaying not the sharpest"
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