Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

1161. Who Were 'The Father And The Son' 3/3/2015
1162. Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets 4/17/2015
1163. Whose Are The Little Beds, I Asked 1/13/2003
1164. Whose Cheek Is This? 1/13/2003
1165. Whose Pink career may have a close 7/4/2015
1166. Why Do I Love You, Sir? 1/1/2004
1167. Why Do They Shut Me Out of Heaven? 1/13/2003
1168. Why Make It Doubt—it Hurts It So 1/1/2004
1169. Wild Nights! Wild Nights! 12/31/2002
1170. Will There Really Be A "Morning"? 1/13/2003
1171. Witchcraft Has Not A Pedigree 11/13/2015
1172. Witchcraft Was Hung, In History 3/17/2015
1173. With A Flower 1/2/2015
1174. With Thee, In The Desert 1/13/2003
1175. Within My Garden, Rides A Bird 1/13/2003
1176. Within My Reach! 1/13/2003
1177. Without This—there Is Nought 1/1/2004
1178. Wolfe Demanded During Dying 1/13/2003
1179. Woodpecker, The 12/31/2002
1180. work For Immortality 1/1/2004
1181. Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours 1/13/2003
1182. Yesterday Is History 3/17/2015
1183. You Cannot Put A Fire Out 1/13/2003
1184. You Constituted Time 1/13/2003
1185. You Know That Portrait In The Moon 1/13/2003
1186. You left me—Sire—two Legacies 1/13/2003
1187. You Love Me—you Are Sure 1/1/2004
1188. You Love The Lord—you Cannot See 1/1/2004
1189. You Said That I 1/1/2004
1190. You See I Cannot See—your Lifetime 1/1/2004
1191. You Taught Me Waiting With Myself 1/13/2003
1192. You'Ll Find—it When You Try To Die 1/1/2004
1193. You'Ll Know Her—by Her Foot 1/1/2004
1194. You'Ll Know It—as You Know 'Tis Noon 1/1/2004
1195. Your Riches—taught Me—poverty 1/1/2004
1196. You'Re Right— 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

And This Of All My Hopes


And this of all my Hopes
This, is the silent end
Bountiful colored, my Morning rose
Early and sere, its end

Never Bud from a Stem
Stepped with so gay a Foot
Never a Worm so confident
Bored at so brave a Root

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