Quotes to inspire and reflect

We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise And then, if we are true to plan Our statures touch the skies.

The Bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon Earth— The Sweeping up the Heart, And putting Love away We shall not want to use again Until Eternity.

Experiment to me Is every one I meet If it contain a Kernel? The Figure of a Nut Presents upon a Tree Equally plausibly, But Meat within, is requisite To Squirrels, and to Me.

I never saw a Moor— I never saw the Sea— Yet know I how the Heather looks And what a Billow be. I never spoke with God Nor visited in Heaven— Yet certain am I of the spot As if the Checks were given—

The Dying, is a trifle, past But living, this include The dying multifold—without The Respite to be dead.

’Twas my one Glory— Let it be Remembered I was owned of Thee—

But never met this Fellow Attended or alone Without a tighter breathing And Zero at the Bone—

A narrow Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides—

Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth.

If I can stop one Heart from breaking I shall not live in vain If I can ease one Life the Aching Or cool one Pain Or help one fainting Robin Unto his Nest again I shall not live in Vain.

Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot Delivered straighter to the Heart The leaving Love behind.

Adventure most unto itself The Soul condemned to be— Attended by a single Hound Its own identity.

God gave a Loaf to every Bird— But just a Crumb—to Me—

This quiet Dust was Gentlemen and Ladies And Lads and Girls— Was laughter and ability and Sighing, And Frocks and Curls.

Alter! When the Hills do— Falter! When the Sun Question if His Glory Be the Perfect One— Surfeit! When the Daffodil Doth of the Dew— Even as Herself—Sir— I will—of You—

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Ourselves And Immortality.

Pain—has an Element of Blank— It cannot recollect When it begun—or if there were A time when it was not—

And that White Sustenance— Despair—

I cannot live with You— It would be Life— And Life is over there— Behind the Shelf.

The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will contain With ease—and You—beside.

I asked no other thing— No other—was denied— I offered Being—for it— The Mighty Merchant sneered— Brazil? He twirled a Button— Without a glance my way— “But—Madam—is there nothing else— That We can show—Today?”

And neigh like Boanerges— Then punctual as a Star Stop—docile and omnipotent At its own stable door—

I like to see it lap the Miles— And lick the Valleys up—

I reckon—when I count at all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God— And then—the List is done— But, looking back—the First so seems To Comprehend the Whole— The Others look a needless Show— So I write—Poets—All—

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night— We talked between the Rooms— Until the Moss had reached our lips— And covered up—our names—

It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down—

This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me— The simple News that Nature told— With tender Majesty.

I died for Beauty—but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room—

Good Morning—Midnight— I’m coming Home— Day—got tired of Me— How could I—of Him?

Much Madness is divinest Sense— To a discerning Eye— Much Sense—the starkest Madness— ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail— Assent—and you are sane— Demur—you’re straightway dangerous— And handled with a Chain.

Except Thyself may be Thine Enemy— Captivity is Consciousness— So’s Liberty.

No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

Of Course—I prayed— And did God Care? He cared as much as on the Air A Bird—had stamped her foot— And cried “Give Me”—

So instead of getting to Heaven, at last— I’m going, all along.

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— I keep it, staying at Home— With a bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome—

The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more—

I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time—

I tasted—careless—then— I did not know the Wine Came once a World—Did you? Oh, had you told me so— This Thirst would blister—easier—now

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know! How dreary—to be—Somebody! How public—like a Frog— To tell one’s name—the livelong June— To an admiring Bog!

“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all—

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes—

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats— And Saints—to windows run— To see the little Tippler Leaning against the—Sun—

Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple Leaping like Leopards to the Sky… And the Juggler of Day is gone.

I taste a liquor never brewed, From Tankards scooped in Pearl—

Inebriate of Air—am I— And Debauchee of Dew— Reeling—through endless summer days— From inns of Molten Blue—

These are the days when Birds come back— A very few—a Bird or two— To take a backward look. These are the days when skies resume The old—old sophistries of June— A blue and gold mistake.

The thought beneath so slight a film— Is more distinctly seen— As laces just reveal the surge— Or Mists—the Apennine—