Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

721. I Stole Them From A Bee 1/13/2003
722. I Felt My Life With Both My Hands 1/13/2003
723. The Grass So Little Has To Do 1/3/2003
724. On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose 1/13/2003
725. Grief Is A Mouse 1/13/2003
726. This World Is Not Conclusion 1/13/2003
727. Unit, Like Death, For Whom? 1/13/2003
728. Two—were Immortal Twice 1/1/2004
729. Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours 1/13/2003
730. Too Little Way The House Must Lie 1/13/2003
731. Me From Myself—to Banish 1/1/2004
732. We Can But Follow To The Sun 1/13/2003
733. The Mystery Of Pain 1/3/2003
734. I Robbed The Woods 1/13/2003
735. We Learned The Whole Of Love 1/13/2003
736. Like Trains Of Cars On Tracks Of Plush 5/15/2001
737. They Shut Me Up In Prose 1/3/2003
738. Love&Mdash;Is Anterior To Life 1/13/2003
739. The Moon Was But A Chin Of Gold 1/13/2003
740. To Make One's Toilette&Mdash;After Death 1/13/2003
741. 'Twould Ease—a Butterfly 1/1/2004
742. Without This—there Is Nought 1/1/2004
743. There Is A Pain—so Utter 1/1/2004
744. In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown 1/13/2003
745. This Quiet Dust Was Gentlemen And Ladies 1/3/2003
746. I'M Ceded—i'Ve Stopped Being Theirs 1/1/2004
747. In Lands I Never Saw—they Say 1/1/2004
748. To Offer Brave Assistance 1/13/2003
749. Twice Had Summer Her Fair Verdure 1/13/2003
750. Upon Concluded Lives 1/13/2003
751. Twas Crisis—all The Length Had Passed 1/1/2004
752. Love Reckons By Itself—alone 1/1/2004
753. Under The Light, Yet Under 1/13/2003
754. The Heart Asks Pleasure First 5/15/2001
755. That Is Solemn We Have Ended 1/13/2003
756. The Rainbow Never Tells Me 1/13/2003
757. The Admirations—and Contempts—of Time 1/1/2004
758. Unfulfilled To Observation 1/13/2003
759. I Meant To Find Her When I Came 1/13/2003
760. My River Runs To Thee 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

    15 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

And This Of All My Hopes

913

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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