Poetry for young people 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

the moon was but a chin of gold

Pink, small, and punctual

His bill an auger is

An everywhere of silver

I like to see it lap the miles

A fuzzy fellow without feed

It sifts from leaden sieves

A narrow fellow in the grass

Dear March, come in!

Bee, I'm expecting you!

The grass so little has to do

A bird came down the walk

The bee is not afraid of me

A soft sea washed around the house

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee

The pedigree of honey

Forbidden fruit a flavor has

The wind begun to rock the grass

The 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

A word is dead

In this short life

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