Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

561. I Play At Riches—to Appease 1/1/2004
562. There Is A Word 1/13/2003
563. The Pedigree Of Honey 5/15/2001
564. I Know A Place Where Summer Strives 5/15/2001
565. I Tend My Flowers For Thee 1/13/2003
566. I Cannot Be Ashamed 1/13/2003
567. Our Lives Are Swiss 1/3/2003
568. To Learn The Transport By The Pain 1/13/2003
569. So Has A Daisy Vanished 1/13/2003
570. Heaven Has Different Signs—to Me 1/1/2004
571. Her Sweet Weight On My Heart A Night 1/13/2003
572. The Wind Begun To Knead The Grass 1/13/2003
573. Her Smile Was Shaped Like Other Smiles 1/13/2003
574. Mama Never Forgets Her Birds 1/13/2003
575. The Flower Must Not Blame The Bee 1/13/2003
576. We Do Not Play On Graves 1/13/2003
577. Where Thou Art—that—is Home 1/1/2004
578. Not "Revelation"&Mdash;'Tis&Mdash;That Waits 1/13/2003
579. How Noteless Men, And Pleiads, Stand 1/13/2003
580. If I Should Cease To Bring A Rose 1/13/2003
581. The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were 1/13/2003
582. I Had No Cause To Be Awake 1/13/2003
583. The Wind Begun To Rock The Grass 5/15/2001
584. When I Count The Seeds 1/13/2003
585. The Robin Is The One 1/13/2003
586. She Hideth Her The Last 1/13/2003
587. The Chariot 4/28/2011
588. Perhaps You Think Me Stooping 1/13/2003
589. The Trees Like Tassels—hit—and Swung 1/1/2004
590. The Love A Life Can Show Below 1/13/2003
591. The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized. 12/31/2002
592. My Faith Is Larger Than The Hills 1/13/2003
593. The Difference Between Despair 1/13/2003
594. Her&Mdash;"Last Poems" 1/13/2003
595. Promise This—when You Be Dying 1/1/2004
596. I Am Ashamed—i Hide 1/1/2004
597. The Rainbow Never Tells Me 1/13/2003
598. He Touched Me, So I Live To Know 1/13/2003
599. He Was Weak, And I Was Strong—then 1/1/2004
600. The Sun Kept Setting—setting—still 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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