Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

721. The Daisy Follows Soft The Sun 1/13/2003
722. A Little Snow Was Here And There 1/8/2015
723. In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown 1/13/2003
724. The First Day's Night Had Come 1/13/2003
725. I Would Not Paint—a Picture 1/1/2004
726. I Meant To Find Her When I Came 1/13/2003
727. Two—were Immortal Twice 1/1/2004
728. Uncertain Lease—develops Lustre 1/1/2004
729. I Can Wade Grief 1/13/2003
730. I'M "Wife"&Mdash;I'Ve Finished That 1/13/2003
731. The Cricket Sang, 5/15/2001
732. How The Old Mountains Drip With Sunset 1/13/2003
733. There Is A Pain—so Utter 1/1/2004
734. Heaven Is So Far Of The Mind 1/13/2003
735. Love—is Anterior To Life 1/1/2004
736. I'M The Little "Heart's Ease" 1/13/2003
737. This Was A Poet&Mdash;It Is That 1/13/2003
738. She Rose To His Requirement 1/13/2003
739. It's All I Have To Bring Today 1/13/2003
740. In Rags Mysterious As These 1/13/2003
741. There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer 1/13/2003
742. Too Little Way The House Must Lie 1/13/2003
743. Love Reckons By Itself—alone 1/1/2004
744. Love&Mdash;Is Anterior To Life 1/13/2003
745. The Bible Is An Antique Volume 1/13/2003
746. The Moon Was But A Chin Of Gold 1/13/2003
747. The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound 1/13/2003
748. Presentiment Is That Long Shadow On The Lawn 5/15/2001
749. Unit, Like Death, For Whom? 1/13/2003
750. My River Runs To Thee 1/13/2003
751. I Felt A Cleaving In My Mind 5/15/2001
752. This World Is Not Conclusion 1/13/2003
753. The Sky Is Low, The Clouds Are Mean, 5/15/2001
754. Our Journey Had Advanced; 5/15/2001
755. I Felt My Life With Both My Hands 1/13/2003
756. I Envy Seas, Whereon He Rides 1/13/2003
757. On This Long Storm The Rainbow Rose 1/13/2003
758. We Can But Follow To The Sun 1/13/2003
759. The Mystery Of Pain 1/3/2003
760. If I Could Bribe Them By A Rose 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!


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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