Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

841. I Reason, Earth Is Short 1/13/2003
842. Home 1/3/2003
843. Triumph—may Be Of Several Kinds 1/1/2004
844. Is It Dead—find It 1/1/2004
845. Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again? 1/13/2003
846. Talk With Prudence To A Beggar 1/13/2003
847. Unto My Books—so Good To Turn 1/1/2004
848. That After Horror—that 'Twas Us 1/1/2004
849. That Distance Was Between Us 1/13/2003
850. Escaping Backward To Perceive 1/13/2003
851. The Brain&Mdash;Is Wider Than The Sky 1/13/2003
852. It Was Too Late For Man 1/13/2003
853. Taking Up The Fair Ideal 1/13/2003
854. The Battle Fought Between The Soul 1/13/2003
855. To My Small Hearth His Fire Came 1/13/2003
856. Embarrassment Of One Another 1/13/2003
857. You Said That I 1/1/2004
858. To Love Thee Year By Year 1/13/2003
859. It Troubled Me As Once I Was 1/13/2003
860. Sown In Dishonor 1/13/2003
861. Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered 1/1/2004
862. Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds 1/13/2003
863. Wait Till The Majesty Of Death 1/13/2003
864. Give Little Anguish 1/13/2003
865. Nature The Gentlest Mother Is 1/3/2003
866. 'Twas Just This Time, Last Year, I Died 1/13/2003
867. Is It True, Dear Sue? 1/13/2003
868. I Cannot Live With You (No. 640) 1/20/2003
869. The Last Night That She Lived 1/13/2003
870. Teach Him—when He Makes The Names 1/1/2004
871. In Winter In My Room 1/13/2003
872. I Cannot Dance Upon My Toes 1/13/2003
873. Twas Such A Little—little Boat 1/1/2004
874. Dropped Into The Ether Acre 1/13/2003
875. Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss 1/13/2003
876. Trust In The Unexpected 1/13/2003
877. From Us She Wandered Now A Year 1/13/2003
878. 'Twas Like A Maelstrom, With A Notch 1/13/2003
879. She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades 1/13/2003
880. It Dropped So Low In My Regard 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

I Send Two Sunsets

308

I send Two Sunsets—
Day and I—in competition ran—
I finished Two—and several Stars—
While He—was making One—

His own was ampler—but as I
Was saying to a friend—
Mine—is the more convenient
To Carry in the Hand—

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