Emily Dickinson Quotes About Soul
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What fortitude the Soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming Foot- The opening of a Door.
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Narcotics cannot still the tooth. That Nibbles at the soul
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It is easy to work when the soul is at play.
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Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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Somewhere in my soul a thought went up in my mind today that I have had before, but did not finish, some way back, I could not fix the year. Nor where it went, nor why it came the second time to me, nor definetly what it was, have I the art to say. But somewhere in my soul, I know I've met the thing before; it just reminded me-' twas all'-and came my way no more.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
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The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
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There is a solitude of space. A solitude of sea. A solitude of death, but these societies shall be compared with that profounder site-that polar privacy. A soul admitted to itself--Finite infinity.
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Faith—is the Pierless Bridge Supporting what We see Unto the Scene that We do not— Too slender for the eye It bears the Soul as bold As it were rocked in Steel With Arms of Steel at either side— It joins—behind the Veil To what, could We presume The Bridge would cease to be To Our far, vacillating Feet A first Necessity.
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The Soul should always stand ajar.
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I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still... I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose.
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The dearest ones of time, the strongest friends of the soul--BOOKS.
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How frugal is the chariot that bears a human soul.
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Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
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The Soul selects her own Society.
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The Loneliness One dare not sound -- And would as soon surmise AS in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size -- The Loneliness whose worst alarm Is lest itself should see -- And perish from before itself For just a scrutiny -- The Horror not to be surveyed -- But skirted in the Dark -- With Consciousness suspended -- And Being under Lock -- I fear me this -- is Loneliness -- The Maker of the soul Its Caverns and its Corridors Illuminate -- or seal
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... And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again, Then space began to toll.
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Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid - as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.
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Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
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Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more.
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The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, - Or the most agonizing Spy - An Enemy - could send -
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The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.
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He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.
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