Authors - Emily Dickinson
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 - May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence. - Wikipedia
Remember if you marry for beauty, thou bindest thyself all thy life for that which perchance, will neither last nor please thee one year: and when thou hast it, it will be to thee of no price at all.
Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
Forever is composed of nows.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
Anger as soon as fed is dead. 'Tis starving makes it fat.
Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need to know of hell.
Luck is not chance, it is toil. Fortune is expensive smile is earned.
My friends are my estate.
To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed.
We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
Beauty is not caused. It is.
My life closed twice before its' close- It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me. So huge, so hopeless to concieve As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.
I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
Where thou art, that is home.
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes--
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.