Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

201. Mute Thy Coronation 1/13/2003
202. The Heaven Vests For Each 1/13/2003
203. The Sweetest Heresy Received 1/13/2003
204. Savior! I'Ve No One Else To Tell 1/13/2003
205. Ribbons Of The Year 1/13/2003
206. Where Bells No More Affright The Morn 1/13/2003
207. What Did They Do Since I Saw Them? 1/13/2003
208. This Merit Hath The Worst 1/13/2003
209. There Is A June When Corn Is Cut 1/13/2003
210. No Prisoner Be 1/13/2003
211. While Asters&Mdash; 1/13/2003
212. Noon—is The Hinge Of Day 1/1/2004
213. What Care The Dead, For Chanticleer 1/13/2003
214. The Court Is Far Away 1/13/2003
215. Like Her The Saints Retire 1/13/2003
216. Of Tolling Bell I Ask The Cause? 1/13/2003
217. Publication 1/3/2003
218. There's Something Quieter Than Sleep 1/13/2003
219. This Dust, And Its Feature 1/13/2003
220. Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things 1/13/2003
221. The Guest Is Gold And Crimson 1/13/2003
222. Who Giants Know, With Lesser Men 1/13/2003
223. Nature—sometimes Sears A Sapling 1/1/2004
224. She's Happy, With A New Content 1/13/2003
225. I'M Sorry For The Dead—today 1/1/2004
226. Of Consciousness, Her Awful Mate 1/13/2003
227. From The Chrysalis 12/13/2014
228. The Red—blaze—is The Morning 1/1/2004
229. I'Ve None To Tell Me To But Thee 1/13/2003
230. The Show Is Not The Show, 5/15/2001
231. The Hallowing Of Pain 1/13/2003
232. The White Heat 5/15/2001
233. The Thought Beneath So Slight A Film 5/15/2001
234. Renunciation 1/3/2003
235. The Martyr Poets—did Not Tell 1/1/2004
236. There Is An Arid Pleasure 1/13/2003
237. The Snow That Never Drifts 1/8/2015
238. Out Of Sight? What Of That? 1/13/2003
239. The Zeroes—taught Us—phosphorous 1/1/2004
240. We Miss Her, Not Because We See 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

And This Of All My Hopes

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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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