Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

1. It sounded as if the Streets were running 4/21/2015
2. Silence is all we dread 4/24/2015
3. The inundation of the Spring 5/5/2015
4. The Notice that is called the Spring 5/5/2015
5. There comes a warning like a spy 5/11/2015
6. There is no Silence in the Earth 5/29/2015
7. As from the earth the light Balloon 5/29/2015
8. Mine enemy is growing old 5/29/2015
9. Whose Pink career may have a close 7/4/2015
10. Growth of Man - like Growth of Nature 11/20/2015
11. Judgment is justest 12/2/2015
12. On my volcano grows the Grass 12/10/2015
13. Remembrance has a Rear and Front 12/29/2015
14. The Hills erect their Purple Heads 1/30/2016
15. The Hills in Purple syllables 1/30/2016
16. Oh Shadow on the Grass 2/8/2016
17. These Fevered Days - to take them to the Forest 2/11/2016
18. Revolution is the Pod 2/13/2016
19. Warm in her Hand these accents lie 2/18/2016
20. Of so divine a Loss 3/30/2016
21. Ended, ere it begun - 4/4/2016
22. The Beggar at the Door for Fame 4/8/2016
23. Whether they have forgotten 4/13/2016
24. By homely gift and hindered Words 4/15/2016
25. Speech is one symptom of Affection 7/11/2016
26. Down Time's quaint stream 7/12/2016
27. A train went through a burial gate 7/22/2016
28. Best Witchcraft is Geometry 8/4/2016
29. A Spider sewed at Night 8/8/2016
30. The Spider as an Artist 8/8/2016
31. As old as Woe 7/29/2016
32. I thought the Train would never come 7/22/2016
33. 'Tomorrow' - whose location 7/20/2016
34. Could mortal lip divine 3/30/2016
35. If all the griefs I am to have 11/26/2015
36. Image of Light, Adieu 7/21/2015
37. Luck is not chance 6/10/2015
38. When Memory is full 6/11/2015
39. He Preached Upon 'Breadth' Till It Argued Him Narrow — 5/11/2015
40. I Bet With Every Wind That Blew 5/12/2015
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

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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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