Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

601. I Live With Him—i See His Face 1/1/2004
602. The Winters Are So Short 1/13/2003
603. The Sun And Moon Must Make Their Haste 1/13/2003
604. The Body Grows Without 1/13/2003
605. She Sped As Petals Of A Rose 1/13/2003
606. How Many Times These Low Feet Staggered 1/13/2003
607. The Child's Faith Is New 1/13/2003
608. I Ment To Find Her When I Came; 5/15/2001
609. She Slept Beneath A Tree 1/13/2003
610. I Robbed The Woods 1/13/2003
611. Poor Little Heart! 1/13/2003
612. My Portion Is Defeat—today 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. I Cautious, Scanned My Little Life 1/13/2003
617. I Meant To Have But Modest Needs 1/13/2003
618. The Way I Read A Letter's—this 1/1/2004
619. I Never Felt At Home—below 1/1/2004
620. The Soul Unto Itself (683) 1/20/2003
621. What Soft—cherubic Creatures 1/1/2004
622. The Truth—is Stirless 1/1/2004
623. There's Been A Death In The Opposite House 5/15/2001
624. I Went To Thank Her 1/13/2003
625. The Name—of It—is 'Autumn' 1/13/2003
626. I Went To Heaven,-- 5/15/2001
627. 'Tis Not That Dying Hurts Us So 1/13/2003
628. I Bring An Unaccustomed Wine 1/13/2003
629. I Never Hear The Word 'Escape' 5/15/2001
630. I Fear A Man Of Frugal Speech 1/13/2003
631. Nature And God—i Neither Knew 1/1/2004
632. Love—is That Later Thing Than Death 1/13/2003
633. The Wind Tapped Like A Tired Man, 5/15/2001
634. I Asked No Other Thing 1/13/2003
635. Where I Have Lost, I Softer Tread 1/13/2003
636. The Skies Can'T Keep Their Secret! 1/13/2003
637. I Have Never Seen "Volcanoes" 1/13/2003
638. Knows How To Forget! 1/13/2003
639. Good Night! Which Put The Candle Out? 5/14/2001
640. She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms, 5/15/2001
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

And This Of All My Hopes


And this of all my Hopes
This, is the silent end
Bountiful colored, my Morning rose
Early and sere, its end

Never Bud from a Stem
Stepped with so gay a Foot
Never a Worm so confident
Bored at so brave a Root

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