Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

441. I Think To Live—may Be A Bliss 1/1/2004
442. When I Was Small, A Woman Died 1/13/2003
443. What Would I Give To See His Face? 1/13/2003
444. My Eye Is Fuller Than My Vase 1/13/2003
445. The Soul's Superior Instants 1/13/2003
446. I'Ve Known A Heaven, Like A Tent 1/13/2003
447. Over The Fence 1/13/2003
448. Through The Strait Pass Of Suffering 1/13/2003
449. When I Have Seen The Sun Emerge 1/13/2003
450. I Think I Was Enchanted 1/13/2003
451. The Fingers Of The Light 1/13/2003
452. The Murmur Of A Bee 1/13/2003
453. The Wind Didn'T Come From The Orchard—today 1/1/2004
454. Why Make It Doubt—it Hurts It So 1/1/2004
455. We—bee And I—live By The Quaffing 1/1/2004
456. No Man Can Compass A Despair 1/13/2003
457. This Chasm, Sweet, Upon My Life 1/13/2003
458. One Life Of So Much Consequence! 1/13/2003
459. The Mountains—grow Unnoticed 1/1/2004
460. I Had Not Minded—walls 1/1/2004
461. I Gained It So 1/13/2003
462. Only God—detect The Sorrow 1/1/2004
463. The Luxury To Apprehend 1/13/2003
464. He Forgot—and I—remembered 1/1/2004
465. Herein A Blossom Lies 1/13/2003
466. Partake As Doth The Bee 1/13/2003
467. This Is The Land The Sunset Washes, 5/15/2001
468. Who Were 'The Father And The Son' 3/3/2015
469. The Only Ghost I Ever Saw 5/15/2001
470. When Bells Stop Ringing—church—begins 1/1/2004
471. Mine—by The Right Of The White Election! 1/1/2004
472. If I'M Lost&Mdash;Now 1/13/2003
473. Me! Come! My Dazzled Face 5/15/2001
474. I Met A King This Afternoon! 1/13/2003
475. Love—thou Art High 1/1/2004
476. One Crucifixion Is Recorded—only 1/1/2004
477. Went Up A Year This Evening! 1/13/2003
478. I Cross Till I Am Weary 1/13/2003
479. The Malay—took The Pearl 1/1/2004
480. The Sun Kept Stooping—stooping 1/1/2004
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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