Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

241. No Bobolink—reverse His Singing 1/1/2004
242. The Grace—myself—might Not Obtain 1/1/2004
243. I Want—it Pleaded—all Its Life— 1/1/2004
244. Size Circumscribes—it Has No Room 1/1/2004
245. Lightly Stepped A Yellow Star 1/16/2015
246. The First Day That I Was A Life 1/13/2003
247. The Morning After Woe 1/13/2003
248. If Blame Be My Side—forfeit Me 1/1/2004
249. If He Were Living—dare I Ask 1/1/2004
250. The Dust Behind I Strove To Join 1/13/2003
251. If Pain For Peace Prepares 1/13/2003
252. He Put The Belt Around My Life 1/13/2003
253. He Found My Being—set It Up 1/1/2004
254. He Outstripped Time With But A Bout 1/13/2003
255. Good To Hide, And Hear 'Em Hunt! 1/13/2003
256. To Hang Our Head&Mdash;Ostensibly 1/13/2003
257. If She Had Been The Mistletoe 1/13/2003
258. Must Be A Woe 1/13/2003
259. Of All The Souls That Stand Create 5/15/2001
260. Only A Shrine, But Mine 1/13/2003
261. Midsummer, Was It, When They Died 1/13/2003
262. Publication—is The Auction 1/1/2004
263. Whose Cheek Is This? 1/13/2003
264. Our Little Kinsmen—after Rain 1/1/2004
265. What I See Not, I Better See 1/13/2003
266. Sexton! My Master's Sleeping Here 1/13/2003
267. It's Thoughts—and Just One Heart 1/1/2004
268. Those Fair—fictitious People 1/1/2004
269. The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb 1/13/2003
270. Rehearsal To Ourselves 1/13/2003
271. The Face I Carry With Me—last 1/1/2004
272. Our Share Of Night To Bear 1/13/2003
273. The Chemical Conviction 1/13/2003
274. These Tested Our Horizon 1/13/2003
275. Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not 1/13/2003
276. We Pray&Mdash;To Heaven 1/13/2003
277. Not That We Did, Shall Be The Test 1/13/2003
278. Have Any Like Myself 1/13/2003
279. This Is A Blossom Of The Brain 1/13/2003
280. I Make His Crescent Fill Or Lack 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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