Quotes by Emily Dickinson

A Route of Evanescence With a revolving Whee...	My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In...
Wild Nights—Wild Nights! Were I with th...	The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy Morni...
Behold the Atom—I preferred— To al...	A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, As Guest, ...
Of all the souls that stand create— I h...	Our Summer made her light escape Into the Be...
Our journey had advanced;	As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed ...
Retreat was out of hope,— Behind, a sea...	A word is dead When it is said, Some say....
It has no future but itself— Its infini...	Because I could not stop for Death— He ...
Pain has an element of blank—	We paused before a House that seemed A Swell...
Let us go in; the fog is rising.	Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet ...
Remorse is cureless—the Disease Not eve...	Because I could not stop for Death— He ...
Remorse—is Memory—awake— Her ...	Elysium is as far as to The very nearest roo...
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers— Untou...	But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
Soundless as dots—on a Disc of Snow—	"Faith" is a fine invention
Grand go the Years—in the Crescent—ab...	"Faith" is a fine invention When Gentlemen c...
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— ...	Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting...
God preaches,—a noted clergyman,— ...	Fame is a bee. It has a song-- It has a s...
Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I kee...	Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate.
Spring is the Period Express from God.	Farther in summer than the birds, Pathetic f...
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'...	Remit as yet no grace, No furrow on the glow...
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'...	His Labor is a Chant— His Idleness—...
On whose forbidden ear The distant strains o...	"Hope" is the thing with feathers— That...
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'...	"Hope" is the thing with feathers— That...
Surgeons must be very careful When they take...	Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb&#...
Tell all the truth but tell it slant, Succes...	Fearless—the cobweb swings from the ceilin...
The truth must dazzle gradually Or every man...	How many times these low feet staggered—

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