Emily Dickinson

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

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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