Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

721. Pain Has An Element Of Blank; 5/15/2001
722. How Many Flowers Fail In Wood 1/13/2003
723. I Would Not Paint—a Picture 1/1/2004
724. Within My Reach! 1/13/2003
725. The Sun Kept Setting—setting—still 1/1/2004
726. Two—were Immortal Twice 1/1/2004
727. In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown 1/13/2003
728. These Are The Days When Birds Come Back 1/13/2003
729. With Thee, In The Desert 1/13/2003
730. I'M The Little "Heart's Ease" 1/13/2003
731. This Was A Poet&Mdash;It Is That 1/13/2003
732. In Rags Mysterious As These 1/13/2003
733. There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer 1/13/2003
734. I Robbed The Woods 1/13/2003
735. Her Final Summer Was It, 5/14/2001
736. We Learned The Whole Of Love 1/13/2003
737. How The Waters Closed Above Him 1/13/2003
738. Like Trains Of Cars On Tracks Of Plush 5/15/2001
739. Love Reckons By Itself—alone 1/1/2004
740. Uncertain Lease—develops Lustre 1/1/2004
741. Love&Mdash;Is Anterior To Life 1/13/2003
742. I Can Wade Grief 1/13/2003
743. The Cricket Sang, 5/15/2001
744. The Rainbow Never Tells Me 1/13/2003
745. Presentiment Is That Long Shadow On The Lawn 5/15/2001
746. My River Runs To Thee 1/13/2003
747. Our Journey Had Advanced; 5/15/2001
748. On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose 1/13/2003
749. Grief Is A Mouse 1/13/2003
750. This World Is Not Conclusion 1/13/2003
751. Unit, Like Death, For Whom? 1/13/2003
752. Me From Myself—to Banish 1/1/2004
753. It's All I Have To Bring Today 1/13/2003
754. I Came To Buy A Smile—today 1/1/2004
755. Going To Heaven! 1/13/2003
756. He Fumbles At Your Soul 1/13/2003
757. They Shut Me Up In Prose 1/3/2003
758. We Dream—it Is Good We Are Dreaming 1/1/2004
759. I Stepped From Plank To Plank 5/15/2001
760. I Dreaded That First Robin, So 1/13/2003

Comments about Emily Dickinson

  • Uriah Hamilton (7/12/2005 9:01:00 AM)

    Quietly in her room,
    Emily Dickinson
    created a universe of poetry!

    22 person liked.
    22 person did not like.
  • Pickled Onion (1/29/2005 6:34:00 AM)

    Your poem reminded me of part of your surname

  • 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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