A thing with feathers

A book of Emily Dickinson’s poems was free for my Kindle, so I’ve been re-reading her work. I remember reading this particular poem in high school as part of my English Lit class. I appreciated it then, but I know it now. Thank you, Ms. Dickinson, for your words that so eloquently speak what I feel in my heart.

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.

Sing little bird. Today I need hope.

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