Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

81. I thought the Train would never come 7/22/2016
82. Hope is a strange invention 7/26/2016
83. Of so divine a Loss 3/30/2016
84. Too cold is this 2/19/2016
85. Glory is that bright tragic thing 2/29/2016
86. A Sloop of Amber slips away 1/9/2016
87. The grave my little cottage is 2/2/2016
88. The Blue Jay 10/8/2015
89. How fits his Umber Coat 7/6/2015
90. Had we our senses 8/7/2015
91. When Memory is full 6/11/2015
92. She could not live upon the Past 6/17/2015
93. A Sickness Of This World It Most Occasions 5/12/2015
94. There is no Silence in the Earth 5/29/2015
95. Whole Gulfs - of Red, and Fleets 4/17/2015
96. The Duties Of The Wind Are Few 5/11/2015
97. Escape is such a thankful Word 5/8/2015
98. Not Sickness stains the Brave, 2/26/2016
99. Praise it - 'tis dead - 6/7/2016
100. Down Time's quaint stream 7/12/2016
101. The Spider as an Artist 8/8/2016
102. Not any sunny tone 2/18/2016
103. The Devil - had he fidelity 3/30/2016
104. A chilly Peace infests the Grass 2/8/2016
105. Luck is not chance 6/10/2015
106. Spring comes on the World 5/5/2015
107. The Notice that is called the Spring 5/5/2015
108. September's Baccalaureate 4/21/2015
109. The Bat Is Dun With Wrinkled Wings 1/20/2015
110. The Savior Must Have Been A Docile Gentleman (1487) 12/15/2014
111. Could Hope Inspect Her Basis 12/6/2014
112. Who Were 'The Father And The Son' 3/3/2015
113. There comes a warning like a spy 5/11/2015
114. So much of Heaven has gone from Earth 5/29/2015
115. If Ever The Lid Gets Off My Head 5/12/2015
116. My Cocoon Tightens, Colors Tease 10/20/2015
117. His voice decrepit was with Joy 9/2/2015
118. In Snow Thou Comest 1/8/2015
119. Part Five: The Single Hound 1/15/2015
120. To Mend Each Tattered Faith 3/2/2015
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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