Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

481. The Sunrise Runs For Both 1/13/2003
482. So Much Summer 1/13/2003
483. The Woodpecker 1/3/2003
484. Like Some Old Fashioned Miracle 1/13/2003
485. I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet 1/13/2003
486. The Sun Kept Stooping—stooping 1/1/2004
487. When One Has Given Up One's Life 1/13/2003
488. It's Easy To Invent A Life 1/13/2003
489. The Lonesome For They Know Not What 1/13/2003
490. I Never Hear The Word 'Escape' 5/15/2001
491. Her— 1/1/2004
492. Great Caesar! Condescend 1/13/2003
493. Time Feels So Vast That Were It Not 1/13/2003
494. The Lady Feeds Her Little Bird 1/13/2003
495. The Power To Be True To You 1/13/2003
496. Whether My Bark Went Down At Sea 1/13/2003
497. Musicians Wrestle Everywhere 1/13/2003
498. Not All Die Early, Dying Young 1/13/2003
499. No Notice Gave She, But A Change 1/13/2003
500. They Called Me To The Window, For 1/13/2003
501. Who Occupies This House? 1/13/2003
502. The Soul's Superior Instants 1/13/2003
503. The Service Without Hope 1/13/2003
504. The Judge Is Like The Owl 1/13/2003
505. I Know A Place Where Summer Strives 5/15/2001
506. No Man Can Compass A Despair 1/13/2003
507. One Life Of So Much Consequence! 1/13/2003
508. Of Being Is A Bird 1/13/2003
509. Ourselves Were Wed One Summer—dear 1/1/2004
510. He Forgot—and I—remembered 1/1/2004
511. Like Eyes That Looked On Wastes 1/13/2003
512. We Don'T Cry—tim And I 1/1/2004
513. Of Bronze—and Blaze 1/1/2004
514. When Bells Stop Ringing—church—begins 1/1/2004
515. Love—thou Art High 1/1/2004
516. The Body Grows Without 1/13/2003
517. The Flower Must Not Blame The Bee 1/13/2003
518. Mama Never Forgets Her Birds 1/13/2003
519. I Could Not Drink It, Sweet 1/13/2003
520. God Permit Industrious Angels 5/14/2001

Comments about Emily Dickinson

  • Pickled Onion (1/29/2005 6:34:00 AM)

    Your poem reminded me of part of your surname

    15 person liked.
    29 person did not like.
  • Theodora Onken (1/16/2005 10:33:00 PM)

    I have always loved Emily Dickinson. She was so quiet and introspective, but had such a gentle gift with words. She spent many an Amherst day writing about the things that touched her so much, and of course, the bee, and nature were amongst her favorite topics. Her gift of writing was discovered later, which is a true shame.

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 Died For Beauty

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth - the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

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