Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

1201. Whose Pink career may have a close 7/4/2015
1202. Why Do I Love You, Sir? 1/1/2004
1203. Why Do They Shut Me Out of Heaven? 1/13/2003
1204. Why Make It Doubt—it Hurts It So 1/1/2004
1205. Wild Nights! Wild Nights! 12/31/2002
1206. Will There Really Be A "Morning"? 1/13/2003
1207. Witchcraft Has Not A Pedigree 11/13/2015
1208. Witchcraft Was Hung, In History 3/17/2015
1209. With A Flower 1/2/2015
1210. With Thee, In The Desert 1/13/2003
1211. Within My Garden, Rides A Bird 1/13/2003
1212. Within My Reach! 1/13/2003
1213. Without This—there Is Nought 1/1/2004
1214. Wolfe Demanded During Dying 1/13/2003
1215. Woodpecker, The 12/31/2002
1216. work For Immortality 1/1/2004
1217. Would You Like Summer? Taste Of Ours 1/13/2003
1218. Yesterday Is History 3/17/2015
1219. You Cannot Put A Fire Out 1/13/2003
1220. You Constituted Time 1/13/2003
1221. You Know That Portrait In The Moon 1/13/2003
1222. You left me—Sire—two Legacies 1/13/2003
1223. You Love Me—you Are Sure 1/1/2004
1224. You Love The Lord—you Cannot See 1/1/2004
1225. You Said That I 1/1/2004
1226. You See I Cannot See—your Lifetime 1/1/2004
1227. You Taught Me Waiting With Myself 1/13/2003
1228. You'Ll Find—it When You Try To Die 1/1/2004
1229. You'Ll Know Her—by Her Foot 1/1/2004
1230. You'Ll Know It—as You Know 'Tis Noon 1/1/2004
1231. Your Riches—taught Me—poverty 1/1/2004
1232. You'Re Right— 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

And This Of All My Hopes


And this of all my Hopes
This, is the silent end
Bountiful colored, my Morning rose
Early and sere, its end

Never Bud from a Stem
Stepped with so gay a Foot
Never a Worm so confident
Bored at so brave a Root

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