Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

761. Success Is Counted Sweetest 12/31/2002
762. Such Is The Force Of Happiness 1/13/2003
763. Summer For Thee, Grant I May Be 1/13/2003
764. Summer Shower 1/3/2003
765. Sunset At Night—is Natural 1/1/2004
766. Superfluous Were The Sun 1/13/2003
767. Surgeons Must Be Very Careful 1/13/2003
768. Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death 1/1/2004
769. Sweet Mountains—ye Tell Me No Lie 1/1/2004
770. Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses 1/13/2003
771. Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered 1/13/2003
772. Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost 1/13/2003
773. Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered 1/1/2004
774. T Was Just This Time Last Year I Died. 5/14/2001
775. Take Your Heaven Further On 1/13/2003
776. Taking Up The Fair Ideal 1/13/2003
777. Talk With Prudence To A Beggar 1/13/2003
778. Teach Him—when He Makes The Names 1/1/2004
779. Tell All The Truth 1/3/2003
780. That After Horror—that 'Twas Us 1/1/2004
781. That Distance Was Between Us 1/13/2003
782. That First Day, When You Praised Me, Sweet 1/13/2003
783. That I Did Always Love 1/13/2003
784. That Is Solemn We Have Ended 1/13/2003
785. The Admirations—and Contempts—of Time 1/1/2004
786. The Angle Of A Landscape 1/13/2003
787. The Bat Is Dun With Wrinkled Wings 1/20/2015
788. The Battle Fought Between The Soul 1/13/2003
789. The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me 1/13/2003
790. The Beggar Lad&Mdash;Dies Early 1/13/2003
791. The Bible Is An Antique Volume 1/13/2003
792. The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb 1/13/2003
793. The Birds Begun At Four O'Clock 1/13/2003
794. The Birds Reported From The South 1/13/2003
795. The Black Berry—wears A Thorn In His Side 1/1/2004
796. The Body Grows Without 1/13/2003
797. The Brain Within It's Groove 12/31/2002
798. The Brain&Mdash;Is Wider Than The Sky 1/13/2003
799. The Brain, Within Its Groove 1/13/2003
800. The Brain—is Wider Than The Sky 1/1/2004
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

I Send Two Sunsets


I send Two Sunsets—
Day and I—in competition ran—
I finished Two—and several Stars—
While He—was making One—

His own was ampler—but as I
Was saying to a friend—
Mine—is the more convenient
To Carry in the Hand—

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