Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

281. Of All The Souls That Stand Create 5/15/2001
282. Only A Shrine, But Mine 1/13/2003
283. Midsummer, Was It, When They Died 1/13/2003
284. Publication—is The Auction 1/1/2004
285. Whose Cheek Is This? 1/13/2003
286. I Had The Glory—that Will Do 1/1/2004
287. Our Little Kinsmen—after Rain 1/1/2004
288. What I See Not, I Better See 1/13/2003
289. Those Fair—fictitious People 1/1/2004
290. It's Thoughts—and Just One Heart 1/1/2004
291. The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb 1/13/2003
292. Rehearsal To Ourselves 1/13/2003
293. The Face I Carry With Me—last 1/1/2004
294. Our Share Of Night To Bear 1/13/2003
295. The Chemical Conviction 1/13/2003
296. Their Height In Heaven Comforts Not 1/13/2003
297. We Pray&Mdash;To Heaven 1/13/2003
298. There Is A Finished Feeling 1/13/2003
299. Tho' My Destiny Be Fustian 1/13/2003
300. Where Ships Of Purple—gently Toss 1/1/2004
301. The Missing All—prevented Me 1/1/2004
302. Of All The Sounds Despatched Abroad 1/13/2003
303. Pigmy Seraphs—gone Astray 1/1/2004
304. Morning—means 1/1/2004
305. Once More, My Now Bewildered Dove 1/13/2003
306. In Falling Timbers Buried 1/13/2003
307. Tho' I Get Home How Late—how Late 1/1/2004
308. I Make His Crescent Fill Or Lack 1/13/2003
309. The Gentian Weaves Her Fringes 1/13/2003
310. She Died At Play 1/13/2003
311. Have Any Like Myself 1/13/2003
312. To Know Just How He Suffered—Would Be Dear 1/13/2003
313. How Well I Knew Her Not 1/13/2003
314. They Called Me To The Window, For 1/13/2003
315. The Future—never Spoke 1/1/2004
316. I Often Passed The Village 1/13/2003
317. Perhaps I Asked Too Large 1/3/2003
318. I Think I Was Enchanted 1/13/2003
319. She Lay As If At Play 1/13/2003
320. How firm Eternity must look 4/6/2016
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

913

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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