Finest Poems

Home Poetry Emily Dickinson

Filter     Order  Title asc Title desc Ordering    Display #  5 10 15 20 25 30 50 Item Title God made a little gentian; God permit industrious angels Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him-- Good night! which put the candle out? He fumbles at your spirit Heaven is what I cannot reach! Her final summer was it, Hope is the thing with feathers I breathed enough to learn the trick, I cannot live with you, I died for beauty but was scarce I felt a cleaving in my mind I felt a funeral in my brain, I found the phrase to every thought I had been hungry all the years- I had no time to hate, because I heard a fly buzz when I died; I know a place where summer strives I like to see it lap the miles, I lived on dread; to those who know I measure every grief I meet I ment to find her when I came; I never hear the word "escape" I never saw a moor, I stepped from plank to plank   << Start < Prev 1 2 3 4 5 Next > End >> Results 26 - 50 of 113