Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

American poet
10 December 1830 — 15 May 1886

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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.

Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.

A word is dead when it`s been said,
some say.
I say it just begins to live
that day.

Nature is a haunted house, but art is a house that tries to be haunted.

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To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.

Forever is composed of Nows.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.

How strange that Nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!

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