Poem by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)




Hope.

 

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.

 

 

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Written on 2021-08-30 at 00:00

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
This is timely and timeless, thank you.
2021-08-30