|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;
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 is my third favorite poet. She falls in line after Keats and Donne. Because she never named her poems, but numbered them, most of her poetry is called by the first line. What I love about this poem is the imagery given of the bird. Something so small and fragile can sustain us throughout the “gale” and “storm.” There is no need to feed Hope for it is intrinsic in human nature. Enjoy!