Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson
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Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was an American poet. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family's house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.

Although Dickinson was a prolific private poet, fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen... more »

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  • ''Will you tell me my fault, frankly as to yourself, for I had rather wince, than die. Men do not call the surgeon to commend the bone, but to set it, Sir.''
    Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), U.S. poet. Letter, July 1862, to Thomas Wentworth Higginson. The Letters of Emily Dickinson, vol. 2 (1958). Higginson...
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Comments about Emily Dickinson

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  • Esteban Serrato (10/16/2018 9:43:00 AM)


  • Robin (10/3/2018 9:22:00 PM)

    Thank you

  • Robin (10/3/2018 9:22:00 PM)


  • kamal (9/8/2018 9:43:00 PM)

    which is your fav poem

  • Edmund Roache (9/3/2018 6:04:00 AM)

    I have read Emily Dickinson's Complete Poems for 30 years. This site has many poems that I do not recognize as hers

  • i am me (8/26/2018 10:40:00 AM)

    I can`t find one poem

  • andrew (8/21/2018 12:11:00 AM)

    very good poem it is nice

  • andrew (8/21/2018 12:10:00 AM)

    hi this is a good poem

  • Practically a Poet (8/20/2018 4:38:00 AM)

    I love poetry. Especially odes. Poets are like royalty. There are highs and lows. Help I am a toad. Who knew there could be both? !

  • chindomutale.simplesite.com (8/19/2018 12:09:00 AM)

    She stands as one of the best.

Read all 122 comments »
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
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