Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

161. The Night Was Wide, And Furnished Scant 1/13/2003
162. So The Eyes Accost—and Sunder 1/1/2004
163. I Want—it Pleaded—all Its Life— 1/1/2004
164. The Grace—myself—might Not Obtain 1/1/2004
165. Who Court Obtain Within Himself 1/13/2003
166. There Is A Shame Of Nobleness 1/13/2003
167. I'Ve Nothing Else—to Bring, You Know 1/1/2004
168. I'Ve Heard An Organ Talk, Sometimes 1/13/2003
169. Silence is all we dread 4/24/2015
170. There Is A Morn By Men Unseen 1/13/2003
171. These Tested Our Horizon 1/13/2003
172. When Katie Walks, This Simple Pair Accompany Her Side 1/13/2003
173. My Best Acquaintances Are Those 1/13/2003
174. Not That We Did, Shall Be The Test 1/13/2003
175. The Lamp Burns Sure—within 1/1/2004
176. Morns Like These—we Parted 1/1/2004
177. The Tint I Cannot Take—is Best 1/1/2004
178. The Months Have Ends—the Years—a Knot 1/1/2004
179. None Can Experience Sting 1/13/2003
180. The Heart Has Narrow Banks 1/13/2003
181. This Was In The White Of The Year 1/13/2003
182. If Nature Smiles - The Mother Must 12/17/2014
183. Is It Too Late To Touch You, Dear? 9/10/2015
184. The Words The Happy Say 1/9/2015
185. The Savior Must Have Been A Docile Gentleman (1487) 12/15/2014
186. Let Us Play Yesterday 1/13/2003
187. I'Ll Send The Feather From My Hat! 1/13/2003
188. If Any Sink, Assure That This, Now Standing 1/13/2003
189. The World&Mdash;Stands&Mdash;Solemner&Mdash;To Me 1/13/2003
190. Of Silken Speech And Specious Shoe 1/13/2003
191. 'Tis Customary As We Part 1/13/2003
192. Removed From Accident Of Loss 1/13/2003
193. Wert Thou But Ill—that I Might Show Thee 1/1/2004
194. They Won'T Frown Always—some Sweet Day 1/1/2004
195. Just As He Spoke It From His Hands 1/13/2003
196. The Robin For The Crumb 1/13/2003
197. 'Tis True—they Shut Me In The Cold 1/1/2004
198. We Met As Sparks—diverging Flints 1/1/2004
199. This Bauble Was Preferred Of Bees 1/13/2003
200. They Put Us Far Apart 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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