“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.
Emily Dickinson "Hope is the thing with feathers"
(written in 1861, published posthumously in 1891)
(Apologies for re-using this from my own blog - I've been playing host to a disgusting lurgy. And time spent with Emily is never wasted.)
Joan Lennon's website.
Joan Lennon's blog.
Silver Skin.
5 comments:
Great poem.
Sympathies for the large. Hope it's a short-lived sort.
Such a poignant poem, Joan, so thanks. These words have reminded me that I haven't yet read Max Porter's slim novel "Grief Is a Thing with Feathers". I wondered, when I heard about the book, why the title had seemed so enigmatic. Answer: Emily.
Hope the lurgy leaves you soon.
Thanks, Patsy and Penny - I am feeling much more human today!
Get well soon. This is such an appropriate poem for today's world.
Thanks Anne - seem to be working on the one step forward, two steps back format ... not unlike the world ... but hope, as the lady said!
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