Emily DickinsonThinkers

Anger is dead, while starving makes it fat.

Beauty is not caused. It is.

Dying is a wild night and a new road.

Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

January is the Norway of the year.

July is the month of expectation, but pompous joy betrays us, as his first betrothal betrays a boy.

A Letter is a Joy of Earth '.

A Letter is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.

Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.

Love is a thing so startling it leaves little time for anything else.