Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

201. The Heaven Vests For Each 1/13/2003
202. The Sweetest Heresy Received 1/13/2003
203. Ribbons Of The Year 1/13/2003
204. Where Bells No More Affright The Morn 1/13/2003
205. What Did They Do Since I Saw Them? 1/13/2003
206. This Merit Hath The Worst 1/13/2003
207. There Is A June When Corn Is Cut 1/13/2003
208. No Prisoner Be 1/13/2003
209. 'Tis True—they Shut Me In The Cold 1/1/2004
210. We Met As Sparks—diverging Flints 1/1/2004
211. This Bauble Was Preferred Of Bees 1/13/2003
212. Mute Thy Coronation 1/13/2003
213. How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights - 5/11/2015
214. How fits his Umber Coat 7/6/2015
215. What Shall I Do—it Whimpers So 1/1/2004
216. Nature—sometimes Sears A Sapling 1/1/2004
217. She's Happy, With A New Content 1/13/2003
218. This Dust, And Its Feature 1/13/2003
219. Of Nearness To Her Sundered Things 1/13/2003
220. The Guest Is Gold And Crimson 1/13/2003
221. Of Consciousness, Her Awful Mate 1/13/2003
222. No Crowd That Has Occurred 1/13/2003
223. From The Chrysalis 12/13/2014
224. They Ask But Our Delight 1/13/2003
225. The Red—blaze—is The Morning 1/1/2004
226. I'Ve None To Tell Me To But Thee 1/13/2003
227. The Show Is Not The Show, 5/15/2001
228. The Hallowing Of Pain 1/13/2003
229. The Thought Beneath So Slight A Film 5/15/2001
230. There Is An Arid Pleasure 1/13/2003
231. Renunciation 1/3/2003
232. No Matter—now—sweet 1/1/2004
233. The Martyr Poets—did Not Tell 1/1/2004
234. The Snow That Never Drifts 1/8/2015
235. The Zeroes—taught Us—phosphorous 1/1/2004
236. Out Of Sight? What Of That? 1/13/2003
237. We Miss Her, Not Because We See 1/13/2003
238. The Spirit Is The Conscious Ear 1/13/2003
239. Those Who Have Been In The Grave The Longest 1/13/2003
240. Jesus! Thy Crucifix 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

I Send Two Sunsets

308

I send Two Sunsets—
Day and I—in competition ran—
I finished Two—and several Stars—
While He—was making One—

His own was ampler—but as I
Was saying to a friend—
Mine—is the more convenient
To Carry in the Hand—

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