Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

881. Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again? 1/13/2003
882. work For Immortality 1/1/2004
883. Cocoon Above! Cocoon Below! 1/13/2003
884. 'Twas Warm—at First—like Us 1/1/2004
885. It Was A Grave, Yet Bore No Stone 1/13/2003
886. Split The Lark&Mdash;And You'Ll Find The Music 1/13/2003
887. Essential Oils—are Wrung 1/1/2004
888. It Did Not Surprise Me 1/13/2003
889. Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered 1/13/2003
890. The Brain&Mdash;Is Wider Than The Sky 1/13/2003
891. Nature Is What We See— 1/1/2004
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. Is It True, Dear Sue? 1/13/2003
897. I Cannot Live With You (No. 640) 1/20/2003
898. Fame Is The Tine That Scholars Leave 1/13/2003
899. One Year Ago—jots What? 1/1/2004
900. I Never Lost As Much But Twice 1/13/2003
901. You Love Me—you Are Sure 1/1/2004
902. To My Small Hearth His Fire Came 1/13/2003
903. Have You Got A Brook In Your Little Heart 1/13/2003
904. Sown In Dishonor 1/13/2003
905. It Is A Lonesome Glee 1/13/2003
906. 'Twas Love—not Me 1/1/2004
907. Twas Such A Little—little Boat 1/1/2004
908. I Many Times Thought Peace Had Come 1/13/2003
909. Drab Habitation Of Whom? 1/13/2003
910. Forget! The Lady With The Amulet 1/13/2003
911. Garland For Queens, May Be 1/13/2003
912. By Such And Such An Offering 1/13/2003
913. Conjecturing A Climate 1/13/2003
914. I Gave Myself To Him 1/13/2003
915. Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost 1/13/2003
916. Snow Flakes 1/13/2003
917. Frequently The Wood Are Pink 1/13/2003
918. Finite—to Fail, But Infinite To Venture 1/1/2004
919. But Little Carmine Hath Her Face 1/13/2003
920. How Far Is It To Heaven? 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!

666

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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