Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

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