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Hope is a thing with feathers

Emily Dickinson

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Emily Dickinson
Age: 55 †
Born: 1830
Born: December 10
Died: 1886
Died: May 15
Poet
Writer
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson
Ai-mi-li Ti-chin-sen
Emilia Dickinson
Emily Dickinson
Feathers
Hope
Thing

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When we think of his lone effort to live and its bleak reward, the mind turns to the myth for His mercy endureth forever, with confiding revulsion.
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The past is not a package one can lay away.
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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 chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
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A Letter is a Joy of Earth - It is denied the Gods
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There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
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The things of which we want the proof are those we know the best.
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When a Lover is a Beggar Abject is his Knee. When a Lover is an Owner Different is he.
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Not if Their Party were waiting, Not if to talk with Me Were to Them now, Homesickness After Eternity.
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Unable are the Loved to die For Love is Immortality, Nay, it is Deity - Unable they that love - to die For Love reforms Vitality Into Divinity.
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The hearts that never lean must fall.
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To shut your eyes is to travel.
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Two Seasons, it is said, exist- The Summer of the Just, And this of Ours, diversified With Prospect, and with Frost- May not our Second with its First So infinite compare That We but recollect the one The other to prefer?
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I . . . am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold like the chestnut burr and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.
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The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man.
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Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude-.
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PRESENTIMENT is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
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If I shouldn't be alive When the Robins come, Give the one in Red Cravat, A Memorial crumb.
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Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.
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Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
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I tasted - careless - then - I did not know the Wine Came once a World - Did you? Oh, had you told me so - This Thirst would blister - easier - now
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