Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

881. It Ceased To Hurt Me, Though So Slow 1/13/2003
882. Fame Of Myself, To Justify 1/13/2003
883. Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again? 1/13/2003
884. work For Immortality 1/1/2004
885. Cocoon Above! Cocoon Below! 1/13/2003
886. 'Twas Warm—at First—like Us 1/1/2004
887. It Was A Grave, Yet Bore No Stone 1/13/2003
888. That After Horror—that 'Twas Us 1/1/2004
889. Essential Oils—are Wrung 1/1/2004
890. It Did Not Surprise Me 1/13/2003
891. Experience Is The Angled Road 1/13/2003
892. You Love The Lord—you Cannot See 1/1/2004
893. Exhilaration—is Within 1/1/2004
894. It Knew No Medicine 1/13/2003
895. For Largest Woman's Hearth I Knew 1/13/2003
896. Fame Is The Tine That Scholars Leave 1/13/2003
897. One Year Ago—jots What? 1/1/2004
898. Have You Got A Brook In Your Little Heart 1/13/2003
899. Snow Flakes 1/13/2003
900. It Is A Lonesome Glee 1/13/2003
901. I Many Times Thought Peace Had Come 1/13/2003
902. You Love Me—you Are Sure 1/1/2004
903. It Don'T Sound So Terrible—quite—as It Did 1/1/2004
904. Drab Habitation Of Whom? 1/13/2003
905. Forget! The Lady With The Amulet 1/13/2003
906. Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered 1/13/2003
907. Each Scar I'Ll Keep For Him 1/13/2003
908. Garland For Queens, May Be 1/13/2003
909. A Little Dog That Wags His Tail 1/6/2015
910. By Such And Such An Offering 1/13/2003
911. Soto! Explore Thyself! 1/13/2003
912. Some, Too Fragile For Winter Winds 1/13/2003
913. Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost 1/13/2003
914. Elysium Is As Far As To 5/14/2001
915. Trust In The Unexpected 1/13/2003
916. Frequently The Wood Are Pink 1/13/2003
917. Finite—to Fail, But Infinite To Venture 1/1/2004
918. The Railway Train 1/1/2004
919. Nobody Knows This Little Rose 1/13/2003
920. But Little Carmine Hath Her Face 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

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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