Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

761. South Winds Jostle Them 1/13/2003
762. Sown In Dishonor 1/13/2003
763. 'Speech'—is A Prank Of Parliament 1/13/2003
764. Speech—is A Prank Of Parliament— 1/1/2004
765. Split The Lark&Mdash;And You'Ll Find The Music 1/13/2003
766. Spring comes on the World 5/5/2015
767. Spring Is The Period 1/13/2003
768. Strong Draughts Of Their Refreshing Minds 1/13/2003
769. Struck, Was I, Not Yet By Lightning 1/13/2003
770. Success Is Counted Sweetest 12/31/2002
771. Such Is The Force Of Happiness 1/13/2003
772. Summer For Thee, Grant I May Be 1/13/2003
773. Summer Shower 1/3/2003
774. Sunset At Night—is Natural 1/1/2004
775. Superfluous Were The Sun 1/13/2003
776. Surgeons Must Be Very Careful 1/13/2003
777. Suspense—is Hostiler Than Death 1/1/2004
778. Sweet Mountains—ye Tell Me No Lie 1/1/2004
779. Sweet&Mdash;Safe&Mdash;Houses 1/13/2003
780. Sweet&Mdash;You Forgot&Mdash;But I Remembered 1/13/2003
781. Sweet, To Have Had Them Lost 1/13/2003
782. Sweet—you Forgot—but I Remembered 1/1/2004
783. T Was Just This Time Last Year I Died. 5/14/2001
784. Take Your Heaven Further On 1/13/2003
785. Taking Up The Fair Ideal 1/13/2003
786. Talk With Prudence To A Beggar 1/13/2003
787. Teach Him—when He Makes The Names 1/1/2004
788. Tell All The Truth 1/3/2003
789. That After Horror—that 'Twas Us 1/1/2004
790. That Distance Was Between Us 1/13/2003
791. That First Day, When You Praised Me, Sweet 1/13/2003
792. That I Did Always Love 1/13/2003
793. That Is Solemn We Have Ended 1/13/2003
794. The Admirations—and Contempts—of Time 1/1/2004
795. The Angle Of A Landscape 1/13/2003
796. The Bat Is Dun With Wrinkled Wings 1/20/2015
797. The Battle Fought Between The Soul 1/13/2003
798. The Battlefield 5/25/2015
799. The Bee Is Not Afraid Of Me 1/13/2003
800. The Beggar Lad&Mdash;Dies Early 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

Ah, Teneriffe!

666

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages—pause for you—
Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regiment—
Day—drops you her Red Adieu!

Still—Clad in your Mail of ices—

[Hata Bildir]