Emily Dickinson

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

Emily Dickinson Poems

81. A Wounded Deer&Mdash;Leaps Highest 1/13/2003
82. Abraham To Kill Him 1/3/2003
83. Absence Disembodies—so Does Death 1/1/2004
84. Absent Place&Mdash;An April Day 1/13/2003
85. Adrift! A Little Boat Adrift! 1/13/2003
86. Afraid! Of Whom Am I Afraid? 1/13/2003
87. After A Hundred Years 5/14/2001
88. After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes 5/14/2001
89. Again&Mdash;His Voice Is At The Door 1/13/2003
90. Ah, Moon—and Star! 1/1/2004
91. Ah, Teneriffe! 1/13/2003
92. Air has no Residence, no Neighbor 2/10/2016
93. All But Death, Can Be Adjusted 1/13/2003
94. All Circumstances Are The Frame 1/13/2003
95. All Forgot For Recollecting 1/13/2003
96. All I May, If Small 1/13/2003
97. All Men For Honor Hardest Work 5/13/2015
98. All Overgrown By Cunning Moss 1/13/2003
99. All The Letters I Can Write 1/13/2003
100. All These My Banners Be 1/13/2003
101. Alone, I Cannot Be 1/13/2003
102. Alter! When The Hills Do 1/13/2003
103. Although I Put Away His Life 1/13/2003
104. Always Mine! 1/13/2003
105. Ambition Cannot Find Him 1/13/2003
106. Ample Make This Bed. 5/14/2001
107. An Altered Look About The Hills 1/13/2003
108. An Antiquated Tree 12/24/2014
109. An Awful Tempest Mashed The Air 1/13/2003
110. An English Breeze 5/14/2001
111. An Everywhere Of Silver 5/14/2001
112. An Hour Is A Sea 1/13/2003
113. An Ignorance A Sunset 1/13/2003
114. And This Of All My Hopes 1/13/2003
115. And with what body do they come 5/21/2015
116. Angels, In The Early Morning 1/13/2003
117. Answer July 1/13/2003
118. Apology For Her 1/13/2003
119. Apparently With No Surprise 1/3/2003
120. Arcturus 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

"470"

How good—to be alive!

How infinite—to be

Alive—two-fold—The Birth I had

And this—besides, in—Thee!

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