Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

601. The Sun Kept Setting—setting—still 1/1/2004
602. I Live With Him—i See His Face 1/1/2004
603. The Winters Are So Short 1/13/2003
604. The Sun And Moon Must Make Their Haste 1/13/2003
605. The Child's Faith Is New 1/13/2003
606. How Many Times These Low Feet Staggered 1/13/2003
607. I Ment To Find Her When I Came; 5/15/2001
608. She Slept Beneath A Tree 1/13/2003
609. I Robbed The Woods 1/13/2003
610. Poor Little Heart! 1/13/2003
611. My Portion Is Defeat—today 1/1/2004
612. Myself Was Formed—a Carpenter 1/1/2004
613. I Prayed, At First, A Little Girl 1/13/2003
614. The Feet Of People Walking Home 1/13/2003
615. I Cried At Pity—not At Pain 1/1/2004
616. When Diamonds Are A Legend 1/13/2003
617. I Cautious, Scanned My Little Life 1/13/2003
618. The Way I Read A Letter's—this 1/1/2004
619. I Meant To Have But Modest Needs 1/13/2003
620. I Never Felt At Home—below 1/1/2004
621. So Much Summer 1/13/2003
622. There's Been A Death In The Opposite House 5/15/2001
623. I Went To Thank Her 1/13/2003
624. The Name—of It—is 'Autumn' 1/13/2003
625. 'Tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So 1/13/2003
626. I Bring An Unaccustomed Wine 1/13/2003
627. I Never Hear The Word 'Escape' 5/15/2001
628. I Fear A Man Of Frugal Speech 1/13/2003
629. Nature And God—i Neither Knew 1/1/2004
630. Love—is That Later Thing Than Death 1/13/2003
631. The Wind Tapped Like A Tired Man, 5/15/2001
632. I Asked No Other Thing 1/13/2003
633. I Found The Phrase To Every Thought 5/15/2001
634. Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread 1/13/2003
635. The Skies Can'T Keep Their Secret! 1/13/2003
636. I Have Never Seen "Volcanoes" 1/13/2003
637. Knows How To Forget! 1/13/2003
638. The Dying Need But Little, Dear,-- 5/15/2001
639. She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms, 5/15/2001
640. The Leaves Like Women Interchange 1/13/2003
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

Ah, Teneriffe!

666

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages—pause for you—
Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regiment—
Day—drops you her Red Adieu!

Still—Clad in your Mail of ices—

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