Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

521. The Soul's Distinct Connection 1/13/2003
522. It's Coming—the Postponeless Creature 1/1/2004
523. The Sunset Stopped On Cottages 1/13/2003
524. To Hear An Oriole Sing 1/13/2003
525. The Color Of A Queen, Is This 1/13/2003
526. New Feet Within My Garden Go 1/13/2003
527. I Keep My Pledge 1/13/2003
528. I Breathed Enough To Learn The Trick, 5/14/2001
529. Robbed By Death—but That Was Easy 1/1/2004
530. I Know Where Wells Grow—droughtless Wells 1/1/2004
531. Myself Was Formed—a Carpenter 1/1/2004
532. What Is— 1/1/2004
533. I Made Slow Riches But My Gain 1/13/2003
534. I Lived On Dread 1/13/2003
535. They Dropped Like Flakes 5/15/2001
536. When Diamonds Are A Legend 1/13/2003
537. 'Tis So Appalling&Mdash;It Exhilarates 1/13/2003
538. Precious To Me—she Still Shall Be 1/1/2004
539. It Would Have Starved A Gnat 1/13/2003
540. We Lose—because We Win 1/1/2004
541. Like Trains Of Cars On Tracks Of Plush 5/15/2001
542. When Night Is Almost Done 1/13/2003
543. So Much Summer 1/13/2003
544. Who Never Lost, Are Unprepared 1/13/2003
545. Like Some Old Fashioned Miracle 1/13/2003
546. If It Had No Pencil 1/13/2003
547. I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet 1/13/2003
548. One And One—are One 1/1/2004
549. I Never Told The Buried Gold 1/13/2003
550. When I Hoped, I Recollect 1/13/2003
551. The Rose Did Caper On Her Cheek 1/13/2003
552. The Soul That Hath A Guest 1/13/2003
553. God Is A Distant—stately Lover 1/1/2004
554. I Found The Phrase To Every Thought 5/15/2001
555. Whose Are The Little Beds, I Asked 1/13/2003
556. We Like March, His Shoes Are Purple, 5/15/2001
557. We Should Not Mind So Small A Flower 1/13/2003
558. Glowing Is Her Bonnet 1/13/2003
559. To Die—takes Just A Little While 1/1/2004
560. I Saw No Way—the Heavens Were Stitched 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 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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