Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

361. I Cautious, Scanned My Little Life 1/13/2003
362. I Could Bring You Jewels—had I A Mind To 1/1/2004
363. I Could Die—to Know 1/1/2004
364. I Could Not Drink It, Sweet 1/13/2003
365. I Could Not Prove The Years Had Feet 1/13/2003
366. I Could Suffice For Him, I Knew 1/13/2003
367. I Cried At Pity—not At Pain 1/1/2004
368. I Cross Till I Am Weary 1/13/2003
369. I Died For Beauty 1/3/2003
370. I Died For Beauty But Was Scarce 5/15/2001
371. I Dreaded That First Robin, So 1/13/2003
372. I Dwell In Possibility 1/13/2003
373. I Envy Seas, Whereon He Rides 1/13/2003
374. I Fear A Man Of Frugal Speech 1/13/2003
375. I Felt A Cleaving In My Mind 5/15/2001
376. I Felt A Funeral, In My Brain (280) 1/20/2003
377. I Felt My Life With Both My Hands 1/13/2003
378. I Found The Phrase To Every Thought 5/15/2001
379. I Gained It So 1/13/2003
380. I Gave Myself To Him 1/13/2003
381. I Got So I Could Take His Name 1/13/2003
382. I Had A Guinea Golden 1/13/2003
383. I Had Been Hungry All The Years- 5/15/2001
384. I Had No Cause To Be Awake 1/13/2003
385. I Had No Time To Hate, Because 5/15/2001
386. I Had Not Minded—walls 1/1/2004
387. I Had Some Things That I Called Mine 1/13/2003
388. I Had The Glory—that Will Do 1/1/2004
389. I Have A Bird In Spring 1/13/2003
390. I Have A King, Who Does Not Speak 1/13/2003
391. I Have Never Seen "Volcanoes" 1/13/2003
392. I Have No Life But This 11/22/2014
393. I Haven'T Told My Garden Yet 1/13/2003
394. I Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died; 5/15/2001
395. I Held A Jewel In My Fingers 1/13/2003
396. I Hide Myself Within My Flower 1/13/2003
397. I Keep My Pledge 1/13/2003
398. I Know A Place Where Summer Strives 5/15/2001
399. I Know Lives, I Could Miss 1/13/2003
400. I Know Some Lonely Houses Off The Road 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


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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