Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

921. Nobody Knows This Little Rose 1/13/2003
922. But Little Carmine Hath Her Face 1/13/2003
923. It Bloomed And Dropt, A Single Noon 1/13/2003
924. How Far Is It To Heaven? 1/13/2003
925. By Chivalries As Tiny 1/13/2003
926. It Struck Me Every Day 5/15/2001
927. Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses 1/13/2003
928. It Is Easy To Work When The Soul Is At Play 1/13/2003
929. I Many Times Thought Peace Had Come 1/13/2003
930. Dying! To Be Afraid Of Thee 1/13/2003
931. Conscious Am I In My Chamber 1/13/2003
932. Doubt Me! My Dim Companion! 1/13/2003
933. Spring Is The Period 1/13/2003
934. You See I Cannot See—your Lifetime 1/1/2004
935. Deprived Of Other Banquet 1/13/2003
936. Expectation—is Contentment 1/1/2004
937. Houses—so The Wise Men Tell Me— 1/1/2004
938. Truth—is As Old As God 1/1/2004
939. Two Butterflies Went Out At Noon 5/15/2001
940. Except The Heaven Had Come So Near 1/13/2003
941. Fairer Through Fading—as The Day 1/1/2004
942. Such Is The Force Of Happiness 1/13/2003
943. It Makes No Difference Abroad 1/13/2003
944. Exclusion (The Soul Selects Her Own Society) 1/1/2004
945. Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death 1/1/2004
946. Experience Is The Angled Road 1/13/2003
947. Distrustful Of The Gentian 1/13/2003
948. It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up, 5/15/2001
949. The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me 1/13/2003
950. For This—accepted Breath 1/1/2004
951. Heart, We Will Forget Him 1/3/2003
952. Further In Summer Than The Birds 1/13/2003
953. Dust Is The Only Secret 1/13/2003
954. Some Keep The Sabbath Going To Church 1/3/2003
955. Could—i Do More—for Thee 1/1/2004
956. The Brain Within It's Groove 12/31/2002
957. The Bustle In A House 12/31/2002
958. 'Tis So Much Joy! 1/13/2003
959. Did You Ever Stand In A Cavern's Mouth 1/13/2003
960. Flowers—well—if Anybody 1/1/2004
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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