10 December 2008

Happy birthday, Emily Dickinson














Hope is the thing with feathers


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.



5 comments:

Aunt Kathy said...

That is a GREAT poem

Bridget said...

This has always been one of my favorites. I have thought of having it read at my funeral ...

Paula said...

Oh that was a beautiful poem! I needed that this morning, thanks!

KnitNana said...

Happy Birthday, indeed!
Thanks for many happy hours, Ms. D!
(and thank you, Melanie, for the reminder...)
(((hugs)))

adrienne said...

Beautiful - makes me want to cry:)