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

How fits his Umber Coat

How fits his Umber Coat
The Tailor of the Nut?
Combined without a seam
Like Raiment of a Dream -

Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
Computed how the girth?
The Chestnut aged grows
In those primeval Clothes -

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