Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

121. Lightly Stepped A Yellow Star 1/16/2015
122. There is another Loneliness 6/10/2015
123. The Butterfly In Honored Dust 12/13/2014
124. Declaiming Waters None May Dread 11/22/2014
125. The Butterfly Obtains 12/13/2014
126. Proud Of My Broken Heart 11/22/2014
127. Luck is not chance 6/10/2015
128. The Road Was Lit With Moon And Star 1/16/2015
129. To See Her Is A Picture 5/3/2013
130. An Antiquated Tree 12/24/2014
131. Escape is such a thankful Word 5/8/2015
132. I Have No Life But This 11/22/2014
133. Heavenly Father 1/8/2015
134. Reverse Cannot Befall 1/13/2003
135. What Shall I Do—it Whimpers So 1/1/2004
136. She Staked Her Feathers—gained An Arc 1/1/2004
137. There Are Two Ripenings—one—of Sight 1/1/2004
138. On That Dear Frame The Years Had Worn 1/13/2003
139. This That Would Greet&Mdash;An Hour Ago 1/13/2003
140. The Himmaleh Was Known To Stoop 1/13/2003
141. Least Rivers—docile To Some Sea 1/1/2004
142. They Have A Little Odor—that To Me 1/1/2004
143. To Flee From Memory 1/16/2015
144. The Battlefield 5/25/2015
145. 'Tis Anguish Grander Than Delight 1/13/2003
146. Low At My Problem Bending 1/13/2003
147. I Sometimes Drop It, For A Quick 1/13/2003
148. They Ask But Our Delight 1/13/2003
149. Of Tribulation, These Are They 1/13/2003
150. Kill Your Balm—and Its Odors Bless You 1/1/2004
151. Had we our senses 8/7/2015
152. He ate and drank the precious Words 9/4/2015
153. A lane of Yellow led the eye 9/7/2015
154. Are Friends Delight Or Pain 12/10/2014
155. These—saw Visions 1/1/2004
156. The Butterfly Upon The Sky 12/13/2014
157. A little Madness in the Spring 5/5/2015
158. Forbidden Fruit A Flavor Has 11/17/2015
159. Of Brussels—it Was Not 1/1/2004
160. Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled 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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