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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  • Kitten (4/13/2018 12:11:00 PM)

    Lol mr pee hahaha lol! !

  • Kitten (4/13/2018 12:10:00 PM)

    Actually me per lol! ! ! !

  • Mr. F (4/12/2018 12:25:00 PM)

    I go with Mr.E


  • Mr. E (4/12/2018 12:18:00 PM)

    i would say nice but then I heard her poem.


  • Karys Alders (4/12/2018 9:39:00 AM)

    Emily Dickinson has some beautiful poetry and I love reading her poetry.

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  • Emily Dickinson (4/5/2018 1:50:00 AM)

    they fuckn messed up my poems the dickheads

  • XXX sxc (3/21/2018 6:19:00 PM)

    Xxx sxc

  • someone (3/5/2018 2:02:00 PM)


  • Jeremy Minton (2/23/2018 10:21:00 PM)

    This dosent make sense, but I'm sad about her death: (#RESTINPEACETOEMILY

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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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