Emily Dickinson: A Few Favorites

Last night before bed, I read a collection of Emily Dickinson's poems. I had sweet dreams. Coincidence? I think not.


Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.


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.


A word is dead
     When it is said,
     Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
     That day.

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