Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

761. She Rose To His Requirement 1/13/2003
762. She Slept Beneath A Tree 1/13/2003
763. She Sped As Petals Of A Rose 1/13/2003
764. She Staked Her Feathers—gained An Arc 1/1/2004
765. She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms, 5/15/2001
766. She Went As Quiet As The Dew 1/13/2003
767. Shells From The Coast Mistaking 1/13/2003
768. She's Happy, With A New Content 1/13/2003
769. Should You But Fail At—sea 1/1/2004
770. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi 1/13/2003
771. Silence is all we dread 4/24/2015
772. Size Circumscribes—it Has No Room 1/1/2004
773. Sleep Is Supposed To Be 1/13/2003
774. Smiling Back From Coronation 1/13/2003
775. Snow Beneath Whose Chilly Softness 1/13/2003
776. Snow Flakes 1/13/2003
777. So Bashful When I Spied Her! 1/13/2003
778. So From The Mould 1/13/2003
779. So Glad We Are—a Stranger'D Deem 1/1/2004
780. So Has A Daisy Vanished 1/13/2003
781. So much of Heaven has gone from Earth 5/29/2015
782. So Much Summer 1/13/2003
783. So Proud She Was To Die 5/15/2001
784. So Set Its Sun In Thee 1/13/2003
785. So The Eyes Accost—and Sunder 1/1/2004
786. So Well That I Can Live Without 1/13/2003
787. Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled 1/13/2003
788. Some Days retired from the rest 4/18/2015
789. Some Keep The Sabbath Going To Church 1/3/2003
790. Some Rainbow—coming From The Fair! 1/1/2004
791. Some Such Butterfly Be Seen 1/13/2003
792. Some Things That Fly There Be 1/13/2003
793. Some, Too Fragile For Winter Winds 1/13/2003
794. Sometimes with the Heart 4/29/2015
795. Soto! Explore Thyself! 1/13/2003
796. Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again? 1/13/2003
797. South Winds Jostle Them 1/13/2003
798. Sown In Dishonor 1/13/2003
799. 'Speech'—is A Prank Of Parliament 1/13/2003
800. Speech—is A Prank Of Parliament— 1/1/2004
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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