Emily Dickinson

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

Comments about Emily Dickinson

  • Ahuaji Hun (6/18/2017 5:06:00 AM)

    They say you're eccentric because they all have neither the patience nor the intelligence to comprehend you or your words.They turn a blind eye to your sophistication because they fear admitting that they are not clever enough.But I don't.You are not actually good-looking but to me you got the everlasting attraction.You've left but what you sought to say always hangs around me.

    6 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
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  • Greg Bell Greg Bell (4/16/2017 4:30:00 PM)

    What a remarkable talent, decades - no, a century - ahead of her times. Pithy, master of 'telling it slant, ' many have tried to emulate her; few, if any, have succeeded.

  • Gary Manning (3/24/2017 12:16:00 PM)

    This poem is reproduced incorrectly. The words in leafy wood do not appear in the original. This poem exists in transcript only, the original manuscript having been lost, according to Thomas H. Johnson.

  • Gary Manning (3/24/2017 12:14:00 PM)

    This poem is reproduced incorrectly. The words in leafy wood do not appear in the one transcript of this poem extant. No autograph copy of this poem is known, according to Thomas H. Johnson.

  • Sylva-onyema Uba Sylva-onyema Uba (1/26/2017 4:00:00 PM)

    Images of beauty and life depicted in this poem. Sylva-Onyema Uba.

  • Geoff Dunstone (7/14/2016 4:38:00 AM)

    a brilliant and enigmatic poet

  • Soul Watcher Soul Watcher (6/22/2016 10:49:00 AM)

    This poet will never come back again

  • Brendan O'Brien (3/12/2016 2:52:00 AM)

    A word is dead when it is said some say
    I say it only starts to live that dayHow wonderfully accurate, and how beautifully stated.

  • Muteesasira Juma Muteesasira Juma (12/26/2015 12:31:00 AM)

    she was really wonderful

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

Ah, Teneriffe!

666

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages—pause for you—
Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regiment—
Day—drops you her Red Adieu!

Still—Clad in your Mail of ices—

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