Emily Dickinson Quotes

There's nothing glamorous about being dead.

There is nothing which at once affects a man so much and so little as his own death.

The end of a picture is always an end of a life.

I wanted to acknowledge that life goes on but that death goes on, too. A person who is dead is a long, long story.

Death does determine life.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

I think that's what we're all most terrified about: that we'll just die and disappear and we'll leave no trace.

Life is short, and, once somebody is gone, they're gone.

Naked a man comes into the world and naked he leaves it, after all is said and done he leaves nothing except the good deeds he leaves behind.

Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities.

He is dead who called me into being, and when I shall be no more the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.

The most important thing you do in your life is to die.

What a simple thing death is, just as simple as the falling of an autumn leaf.

Jump to the day we'll all be dead and none of this will matter. Jump to the day another house will stand here and the people living there won't know we ever happened.

Worms'-Meat, n. The finished product of which we are the raw material. The contents of the Taj Mahal, the Tombeau Napoleon and the Granitarium. Worms'-meat is usually outlasted by the structure that houses it, but "this too must pass away." Probably the silliest work in which a human being can engage is construction of a tomb for himself. The solemn purpose cannot dignify, but only accentuates by contrast the foreknown futility.

Something begins in order to end: an adventure doesn't let itself be extended it achieves significance only through its death.

Once, once for all, if you would save your heart from breaking, learn this lesson once for all you must cease, in this world, to believe in the eternity of any creed or form at all. Whatever grows in time is a child of time, and is born and lives, and dies at its appointed day like ourselves.

No art is possible without a dance with death.

I'm here. Soon I won't be. Zoey's baby is here. Its pulse tick-ticking. Soon it won't be. And when Zoey comes out of that room, having signed on the dotted line, she'll be different. She'll understand what I already know- that death surrounds us all. And it tastes like metal between you teeth.

Your face encompasses the beauty of the whole earth. Your lips, as red as ripening fruit, gently part as if in pain. It is the smile of a corpse. Now the hand of death touches life. The chain is forged that links the thousand families that are dead to the thousand generations to come.

It's harder to pick and choose when you're dead. It's like a photograph, you know. It doesn't matter as much.

You are as the yellow leaf. The messengers of death are at hand. You are to travel far away. What will you take with you? You are the lamp To lighten the way. Then hurry, hurry. When your light shines.

When a man dies he kicks the dust.

Each leaf that brushed his face deepened his sadness and dread. Each leaf he passed he'd never pass again. They rode over his face like veils, already some yellow, their veins like slender bones where the sun shone through them. He had resolved himself to ride on for he could not turn back and the world that day was as lovely as any day that ever was and he was riding to his death.

We live, we die, we are remembered, we are forgotten.