Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

761. So From The Mould 1/13/2003
762. So Glad We Are—a Stranger'D Deem 1/1/2004
763. So Has A Daisy Vanished 1/13/2003
764. So much of Heaven has gone from Earth 5/29/2015
765. So Much Summer 1/13/2003
766. So Proud She Was To Die 5/15/2001
767. So Set Its Sun In Thee 1/13/2003
768. So The Eyes Accost—and Sunder 1/1/2004
769. So Well That I Can Live Without 1/13/2003
770. Soil Of Flint, If Steady Tilled 1/13/2003
771. Some Days retired from the rest 4/18/2015
772. Some Keep The Sabbath Going To Church 1/3/2003
773. Some Rainbow—coming From The Fair! 1/1/2004
774. Some Such Butterfly Be Seen 1/13/2003
775. Some Things That Fly There Be 1/13/2003
776. Some, Too Fragile For Winter Winds 1/13/2003
777. Sometimes with the Heart 4/29/2015
778. Soto! Explore Thyself! 1/13/2003
779. Soul, Wilt Thou Toss Again? 1/13/2003
780. South Winds Jostle Them 1/13/2003
781. Sown In Dishonor 1/13/2003
782. 'Speech'—is A Prank Of Parliament 1/13/2003
783. Speech—is A Prank Of Parliament— 1/1/2004
784. Split The Lark&Mdash;And You'Ll Find The Music 1/13/2003
785. Spring comes on the World 5/5/2015
786. Spring Is The Period 1/13/2003
787. STEP lightly on this narrow spot 10/20/2015
788. Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds 1/13/2003
789. Struck, Was I, Not Yet By Lightning 1/13/2003
790. Success Is Counted Sweetest 12/31/2002
791. Such Is The Force Of Happiness 1/13/2003
792. Summer For Thee, Grant I May Be 1/13/2003
793. Summer Shower 1/3/2003
794. Sunset At Night—is Natural 1/1/2004
795. Superfluous Were The Sun 1/13/2003
796. Surgeons Must Be Very Careful 1/13/2003
797. Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death 1/1/2004
798. Sweet Mountains—ye Tell Me No Lie 1/1/2004
799. Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses 1/13/2003
800. Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered 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

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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