Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers

It's all I have to bring today

I started early, took my dog

I'm nobody! Who are you?

I hide myself within my flower

I dwell in possibility

Will there really be a morning?

I'll tell you how the sun rose

She sweeps with many-colored brooms

I know some lonely houses off the road

Moon was but a chin of gold

Pink, small, and punctual

His bill an auger is

Everywhere of silver

I like to see it lap the miles

Fuzzy fellow without feet

It sifts from leaden sieves

Narrow fellow in the grass

Dear March, come in!

Bee, I'm expecting you!

Grass so little has to do

Bird came down the walk

Bee is not afraid of me

Soft sea washed around the house

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee

Pedigree of honey

Forbidden fruit a flavor has

Wind begun to rock the grass

Morns are meeker than they were

I have not told my garden yet

My river runs to thee

I never saw a moor

There is no frigate like a book

If I can stop one heart from breaking

Word is dead

In this short life.