Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

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

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