Guest poem sent in by Jessica Schnell
(Poem #1382) 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.
Emily Dickinson has long been a favorite poet of mine, and I've loved this particular poem ever since some time in middle school when I first read it. Maybe it's because it presents such a cheerful and enduring imagery for me, of what hope is like, as a little bird with a beautiful and uplifting song. I noticed you had numerous other poems by Dickinson, and thought this would be a wonderful addition to your collection, to share with others (I regularly pick a random poem to post on profiles, away messages, etc.) Great site, keep up the hard work! [thanks! - ed.] ~Jessica [Martin adds] I am reminded of Poem #646 - the imagery in the two poems make an interesting blend.