Poem of the Week

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

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!



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s