Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

361. The Hallowing Of Pain 1/13/2003
362. The Day Undressed&Mdash;Herself 1/13/2003
363. The Heart Has Narrow Banks 1/13/2003
364. Over And Over, Like A Tune 1/13/2003
365. The Outer—from The Inner 1/1/2004
366. The Sun Is Gay Or Stark 1/13/2003
367. He Strained My Faith 1/13/2003
368. The Sunrise Runs For Both 1/13/2003
369. Read—sweet—how Others—strove 1/1/2004
370. So Glad We Are—a Stranger'D Deem 1/1/2004
371. I Could Die—to Know 1/1/2004
372. 'Tis Little I—could Care For Pearls 1/1/2004
373. One Anguish—in A Crowd 1/1/2004
374. This&Mdash;Is The Land&Mdash;The Sunset Washes 1/13/2003
375. No Rack Can Torture Me 1/13/2003
376. Time Feels So Vast That Were It Not 1/13/2003
377. What If I Say I Shall Not Wait! 1/13/2003
378. The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird 1/13/2003
379. It's Such A Little Thing To Weep 1/13/2003
380. What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles 1/13/2003
381. The Whole Of It Came Not At Once 1/13/2003
382. Put Up My Lute! 1/13/2003
383. Not All Die Early, Dying Young 1/13/2003
384. When We Stand On The Tops Of Things 1/13/2003
385. The Doomed—regard The Sunrise 1/1/2004
386. It's Coming—the Postponeless Creature 1/1/2004
387. If This Is "Fading" 1/13/2003
388. I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise 1/13/2003
389. His Bill An Auger Is 1/13/2003
390. His Feet Are Shod With Gauze 1/13/2003
391. I Rose—because He Sank 1/1/2004
392. He Told A Homely Tale 1/13/2003
393. The Poets Light But Lamps 1/13/2003
394. The Drop, That Wrestles In The Sea 1/13/2003
395. I Got So I Could Take His Name 1/13/2003
396. If He Dissolve—then—there Is Nothing 1/1/2004
397. Portraits Are To Daily Faces 1/13/2003
398. 'Tis One By One — The Father Counts 1/13/2003
399. Morning—is The Place For Dew 1/1/2004
400. 'Tis Sunrise&Mdash;Little Maid&Mdash;Hast Thou 1/13/2003
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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