Emily Dickinson Poems
Hope' Is The Thing With Feathers
'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
Said Death To Passion
Said Death to Passion
'Give of thine an Acre unto me.'
Said Passion, through contracting Breaths
'A Thousand Times Thee Nay.'
Bore Death from Passion
All His East
He - sovereign as the Sun
Resituated in the West
And the Debate was done.