Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

401. I Rose—because He Sank 1/1/2004
402. He Told A Homely Tale 1/13/2003
403. The Poets Light But Lamps 1/13/2003
404. The Drop, That Wrestles In The Sea 1/13/2003
405. I Got So I Could Take His Name 1/13/2003
406. If He Dissolve—then—there Is Nothing 1/1/2004
407. Portraits Are To Daily Faces 1/13/2003
408. I Was The Slightest In The House 1/13/2003
409. 'Tis One By One — The Father Counts 1/13/2003
410. Morning—is The Place For Dew 1/1/2004
411. 'Tis Sunrise&Mdash;Little Maid&Mdash;Hast Thou 1/13/2003
412. I Think The Hemlock Likes To Stand 1/13/2003
413. He Fought Like Those Who'Ve Nought To Lose 1/13/2003
414. Pain Has An Element 1/3/2003
415. We Thirst At First—'Tis Nature's Act 1/1/2004
416. Should You But Fail At—sea 1/1/2004
417. Ourselves Were Wed One Summer—dear 1/1/2004
418. Of Being Is A Bird 1/13/2003
419. We Cover Thee—sweet Face 1/1/2004
420. Good Night, Because We Must 1/13/2003
421. The Good Will Of A Flower 1/13/2003
422. I'M 1/1/2004
423. Joy To Have Merited The Pain 1/13/2003
424. Perhaps You'D Like To Buy A Flower 1/13/2003
425. The Woodpecker 1/3/2003
426. On A Columnar Self 1/13/2003
427. This Heart That Broke So Long 1/13/2003
428. Her— 1/1/2004
429. Wolfe Demanded During Dying 1/13/2003
430. Her Sweet Turn To Leave The Homestead 1/13/2003
431. Great Caesar! Condescend 1/13/2003
432. I Had Some Things That I Called Mine 1/13/2003
433. The Power To Be True To You 1/13/2003
434. She Went As Quiet As The Dew 1/13/2003
435. I'Ll Clutch—and Clutch 1/1/2004
436. I Have A King, Who Does Not Speak 1/13/2003
437. To Interrupt His Yellow Plan 1/13/2003
438. My Period Had Come For Prayer 1/13/2003
439. So Well That I Can Live Without 1/13/2003
440. 'Tis Opposites&Mdash;Entice 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

I Send Two Sunsets

308

I send Two Sunsets—
Day and I—in competition ran—
I finished Two—and several Stars—
While He—was making One—

His own was ampler—but as I
Was saying to a friend—
Mine—is the more convenient
To Carry in the Hand—

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