Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

1001. Do People Moulder Equally 1/13/2003
1002. Could I But Ride Indefinite 1/13/2003
1003. Baffled For Just A Day Or Two 1/13/2003
1004. It Can'T Be "Summer"! 1/13/2003
1005. Fitter To See Him, I May Be 1/13/2003
1006. Further In Summer Than The Birds 1/13/2003
1007. As Watchers Hang Upon The East 1/13/2003
1008. All Circumstances Are The Frame 1/13/2003
1009. Delayed Till She Had Ceased To Know 1/13/2003
1010. You'Ll Know Her—by Her Foot 1/1/2004
1011. I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed 5/15/2001
1012. From Blank To Blank 1/13/2003
1013. Civilization&Mdash;Spurns&Mdash;The Leopard! 1/13/2003
1014. That I Did Always Love 1/13/2003
1015. Departed To The Judgment, 5/14/2001
1016. Surgeons Must Be Very Careful 1/13/2003
1017. Forever At His Side To Walk 1/13/2003
1018. Don'T Put Up My Thread And Needle 1/13/2003
1019. As If I Asked A Common Alms 1/13/2003
1020. Besides This May 1/13/2003
1021. Distrustful Of The Gentian 1/13/2003
1022. For Death—or Rather 1/1/2004
1023. A Throe Upon The Features 1/13/2003
1024. Four Trees—upon A Solitary Acre 1/1/2004
1025. Although I Put Away His Life 1/13/2003
1026. Bereaved Of All, I Went Abroad 1/13/2003
1027. Beclouded 1/3/2003
1028. Bloom Upon The Mountain—stated 1/1/2004
1029. Dust Is The Only Secret 1/13/2003
1030. Crisis Is A Hair 1/13/2003
1031. It Is An Honorable Thought, 5/15/2001
1032. Be Mine The Doom&Mdash; 1/13/2003
1033. Finding Is The First Act 1/13/2003
1034. Delight Is As The Flight 1/13/2003
1035. Each Life Converges To Some Centre 5/14/2001
1036. All These My Banners Be 1/13/2003
1037. A Tongue—to Tell Him I Am True! 1/1/2004
1038. For Every Bird A Nest 1/13/2003
1039. I’ll Tell You How The Sun Rose 1/3/2003
1040. A South Wind&Mdash;Has A Pathos 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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