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"She died--this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side."
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Exlpore more Death quotes
"Death is the ultimate cessation of the individual Self."
"DON'T THINK OF IT AS DYING, said Death. JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH."
"Funerals, I had decided, are for the living."
"The ceaseless labour of your life is to build the house of death."
"No one dies in the language of the Gnani (the Self-realized one) and every one dies in the language of the agnani (non-Self-realized person). The agnani (non-Self-realized person) mourns and grieves, and the Gnani simply 'Sees'."
Explore more quotes by Emily Dickinson
"If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry."
"So bashful when I spied her!So pretty - so ashamed!So hidden in her leafletsLest anybody find -So breathless till I passed her -So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her struggling, blushing,Her simple haunts beyond!For whom I robbed the Dingle -For whom betrayed the Dell -Many, will doubtless ask me,But I shall never tell!"
"Heart, we will forget him,You and I, tonight!You must forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light."
"He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust."
"It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down;It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues, for noon.It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl,Nor fire, for just my marble feetCould keep a chancel cool.And yet it tasted like them all;The figures I have seenSet orderly, for burial,Reminded me of mine,As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;And I was like midnight, some,When everything that ticked has stopped,And space stares, all around,Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,Repeal the beating ground.But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,Without a chance or spar,--Or even a report of landTo justify despair."
"Love is like the wild rose-briar;Friendship like the holly-tree.The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,But which will bloom most constantly?The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,Its summer blossoms scent the air;Yet wait till winter comes again,And who will call the wild-briar fair?Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,And deck thee with holly's sheen,That, when December blights thy brow,He still may leave thy garland green."
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