Quotes by Emily Dickinson

That it will never come again Is what makes life so sweet.

To lose one's way is sometimes to find one's self.

Doubt is but a shadow cast by fear, and easily dispelled by sun of will.

The heart asks first for joy, then settles for mere absence of pain.

A stillness does not equate to emptiness; it is the space where worlds are born.

To name a thing is not to know it; but to limit the knowing.

To comprehend a mystery, first embrace the Unknown.

The measure of a life is not its length, but the echoes it leaves behind.

If a Wish were Wings, the Sky would be crowded.

The Present – a Phantom – that fades even as We try to hold it fast.

Hope is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul.

A garden is a world, and the world a garden – each reflecting the other’s bloom.

Doubt – a pale astronomer – that searches skies – where no stars are.

The world is wide, but the heart, a smaller room. Yet infinite the echoes there may bloom.

Memory, a fragile vessel, carrying oceans of yesterdays.

A single word can hold a universe, if whispered to the right ear.

Grief is a garden, overgrown, where memories bloom and wounds are sown.

The Clock never knows that Life is Fleeting.

The Clover's simple Fame – sufficient is for me.

To dwell in possibility, one must first unlock the door of doubt.

Hope is a feathered thing, but sometimes, clipped of wings.

The Riddle that we are – only Death interprets.

The soul has seasons, not unlike the year. Some for blossoming, some for letting go.

Let the failures be footnotes in the poem of your life, not the final verse.

The soul selects her own Society – then – shuts the Door – on vast Unknowing.

The heart knows what the mind refuses to see.

Doubt is the shadow of a wish, unseen, unsaid.

To comprehend a Woe – it visits us – in Palaces of Quiet.

Success is counted sweetest – by those who ne’er succeed.

The soul selects her own Society – then – shuts the Door. A quiet act, a world defined.

To be alive is but a slow revealing, a blossom forced in shadowed light.

Hope is a feathered thing, but its song may crack the hardest stone.

The brain – is wider than the Sky.

The world is wide, yet the heart finds only its own echo.

A single blossom can redefine a field.

To dwell in Possibility -- A fairer House than Prose --

Hope is a feathered Engine – that sings in the Soul – and asks no Fuel.

The smallest act of kindness plants a garden in the soul.

A quiet mind, a boundless universe.

To dwell in possibility, a fairer house than fact.

Better a brief encounter with truth than a long marriage to falsehood.

Memory is a fragile vase, easily shattered, and impossible to mend perfectly.

What is Paradise – but a moment – caught in a web of time?

Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.

The bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries.

To dwell in Possibility – a fairer House than Fact.

Regret is a ghost we invite to tea, who stays far longer than politeness allows.

Hope is a feathered thing, less bird, more sky.

To find the North – by inward eye.

To lose Oneself – to find the Way.