Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

761. Shall I take thee, the Poet said 7/29/2015
762. She Bore It Till The Simple Veins 1/13/2003
763. She could not live upon the Past 6/17/2015
764. She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades 1/13/2003
765. She Died At Play 1/13/2003
766. She Died—this Was The Way She Died 1/1/2004
767. She Dwelleth In The Ground 1/13/2003
768. She Hideth Her The Last 1/13/2003
769. She Lay As If At Play 1/13/2003
770. She Rose To His Requirement 1/13/2003
771. She Slept Beneath A Tree 1/13/2003
772. She Sped As Petals Of A Rose 1/13/2003
773. She Staked Her Feathers—gained An Arc 1/1/2004
774. She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms, 5/15/2001
775. She Went As Quiet As The Dew 1/13/2003
776. Shells From The Coast Mistaking 1/13/2003
777. She's Happy, With A New Content 1/13/2003
778. Should You But Fail At—sea 1/1/2004
779. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi 1/13/2003
780. Silence is all we dread 4/24/2015
781. Size Circumscribes—it Has No Room 1/1/2004
782. Sleep Is Supposed To Be 1/13/2003
783. Smiling Back From Coronation 1/13/2003
784. Snow Beneath Whose Chilly Softness 1/13/2003
785. Snow Flakes 1/13/2003
786. So Bashful When I Spied Her! 1/13/2003
787. So From The Mould 1/13/2003
788. So Glad We Are—a Stranger'D Deem 1/1/2004
789. So Has A Daisy Vanished 1/13/2003
790. So much of Heaven has gone from Earth 5/29/2015
791. So Much Summer 1/13/2003
792. So Proud She Was To Die 5/15/2001
793. So Set Its Sun In Thee 1/13/2003
794. So The Eyes Accost—and Sunder 1/1/2004
795. So Well That I Can Live Without 1/13/2003
796. Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled 1/13/2003
797. Some Days retired from the rest 4/18/2015
798. Some Keep The Sabbath Going To Church 1/3/2003
799. Some Rainbow—coming From The Fair! 1/1/2004
800. Some Such Butterfly Be Seen 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

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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