Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

Emily Dickinson Poems

761. Split The Lark&Mdash;And You'Ll Find The Music 1/13/2003
762. Spring comes on the World 5/5/2015
763. Spring Is The Period 1/13/2003
764. Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds 1/13/2003
765. Struck, Was I, Not Yet By Lightning 1/13/2003
766. Success Is Counted Sweetest 12/31/2002
767. Such Is The Force Of Happiness 1/13/2003
768. Summer For Thee, Grant I May Be 1/13/2003
769. Summer Shower 1/3/2003
770. Sunset At Night—is Natural 1/1/2004
771. Superfluous Were The Sun 1/13/2003
772. Surgeons Must Be Very Careful 1/13/2003
773. Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death 1/1/2004
774. Sweet Mountains—ye Tell Me No Lie 1/1/2004
775. Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses 1/13/2003
776. Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered 1/13/2003
777. Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost 1/13/2003
778. Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered 1/1/2004
779. T Was Just This Time Last Year I Died. 5/14/2001
780. Take Your Heaven Further On 1/13/2003
781. Taking Up The Fair Ideal 1/13/2003
782. Talk With Prudence To A Beggar 1/13/2003
783. Teach Him—when He Makes The Names 1/1/2004
784. Tell All The Truth 1/3/2003
785. That After Horror—that 'Twas Us 1/1/2004
786. That Distance Was Between Us 1/13/2003
787. That First Day, When You Praised Me, Sweet 1/13/2003
788. That I Did Always Love 1/13/2003
789. That Is Solemn We Have Ended 1/13/2003
790. The Admirations—and Contempts—of Time 1/1/2004
791. The Angle Of A Landscape 1/13/2003
792. The Bat Is Dun With Wrinkled Wings 1/20/2015
793. The Battle Fought Between The Soul 1/13/2003
794. The Battlefield 5/25/2015
795. The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me 1/13/2003
796. The Beggar Lad&Mdash;Dies Early 1/13/2003
797. The Bible Is An Antique Volume 1/13/2003
798. The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb 1/13/2003
799. The Birds Begun At Four O'Clock 1/13/2003
800. The Birds Reported From The South 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Emily Dickinson

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.

Read the full of Hope' Is The Thing With Feathers

A Wind That Rose

A Wind that rose
Though not a Leaf
In any Forest stirred
But with itself did cold engage
Beyond the Realm of Bird -
A Wind that woke a lone Delight
Like Separation's Swell
Restored in Arctic Confidence
To the Invisible -

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