Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

841. Is It Dead—find It 1/1/2004
842. One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted, 5/15/2001
843. That After Horror—that 'Twas Us 1/1/2004
844. That Distance Was Between Us 1/13/2003
845. Escaping Backward To Perceive 1/13/2003
846. Nature, The Gentlest Mother, 5/15/2001
847. Taking Up The Fair Ideal 1/13/2003
848. It Was Too Late For Man 1/13/2003
849. Embarrassment Of One Another 1/13/2003
850. To My Quick Ear The Leaves Conferred; 5/15/2001
851. You Said That I 1/1/2004
852. It Troubled Me As Once I Was 1/13/2003
853. To One Denied The Drink 1/13/2003
854. Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered 1/1/2004
855. Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds 1/13/2003
856. 'Twas Like A Maelstrom, With A Notch 1/13/2003
857. Give Little Anguish 1/13/2003
858. To Lose One's Faith&Mdash;Surpass 1/13/2003
859. 'Twas Just This Time, Last Year, I Died 1/13/2003
860. I Took My Power In My Hand 1/13/2003
861. Teach Him—when He Makes The Names 1/1/2004
862. In Winter In My Room 1/13/2003
863. 'Twas The Old—road—through Pain 1/1/2004
864. Dropped Into The Ether Acre 1/13/2003
865. Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss 1/13/2003
866. Talk With Prudence To A Beggar 1/13/2003
867. Trust In The Unexpected 1/13/2003
868. Home 1/3/2003
869. Nobody Knows This Little Rose 1/13/2003
870. Nature The Gentlest Mother Is 1/3/2003
871. South Winds Jostle Them 1/13/2003
872. The Battle Fought Between The Soul 1/13/2003
873. From Us She Wandered Now A Year 1/13/2003
874. To Love Thee Year By Year 1/13/2003
875. It Dropped So Low In My Regard 5/15/2001
876. Such Is The Force Of Happiness 1/13/2003
877. To Lose Thee 11/21/2014
878. It Tossed—and Tossed 1/1/2004
879. It Ceased To Hurt Me, Though So Slow 1/13/2003
880. Fame Of Myself, To Justify 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 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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