Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

561. The Wind Begun To Knead The Grass 1/13/2003
562. How firm Eternity must look 4/6/2016
563. Me! Come! My Dazzled Face 5/15/2001
564. Mine—by The Right Of The White Election! 1/1/2004
565. Mama Never Forgets Her Birds 1/13/2003
566. The Flower Must Not Blame The Bee 1/13/2003
567. Her Smile Was Shaped Like Other Smiles 1/13/2003
568. We Do Not Play On Graves 1/13/2003
569. I Got So I Could Take His Name 1/13/2003
570. How Noteless Men, And Pleiads, Stand 1/13/2003
571. I'M 1/1/2004
572. She Hideth Her The Last 1/13/2003
573. Perhaps You Think Me Stooping 1/13/2003
574. The Trees Like Tassels—hit—and Swung 1/1/2004
575. Emancipation 12/3/2014
576. The Love A Life Can Show Below 1/13/2003
577. The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized. 12/31/2002
578. My Faith Is Larger Than The Hills 1/13/2003
579. The Difference Between Despair 1/13/2003
580. Her&Mdash;"Last Poems" 1/13/2003
581. Promise This—when You Be Dying 1/1/2004
582. I Am Ashamed—i Hide 1/1/2004
583. On This Wondrous Sea 1/13/2003
584. The Only News I Know 1/13/2003
585. He Touched Me, So I Live To Know 1/13/2003
586. The Power To Be True To You 1/13/2003
587. He Was Weak, And I Was Strong—then 1/1/2004
588. The Sun Kept Setting—setting—still 1/1/2004
589. I Live With Him—i See His Face 1/1/2004
590. The Winters Are So Short 1/13/2003
591. The Sun And Moon Must Make Their Haste 1/13/2003
592. The Child's Faith Is New 1/13/2003
593. Whose Are The Little Beds, I Asked 1/13/2003
594. I Ment To Find Her When I Came; 5/15/2001
595. She Slept Beneath A Tree 1/13/2003
596. The Mountain Sat Upon The Plain 1/13/2003
597. I Think Just How My Shape Will Rise 1/13/2003
598. I Robbed The Woods 1/13/2003
599. Poor Little Heart! 1/13/2003
600. I Prayed, At First, A Little Girl 1/13/2003

Comments about Emily Dickinson

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

    Your poem reminded me of part of your surname

    12 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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