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Hope -- Emily Dickinson

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
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.

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alicetaylor said...

Emily Dickinson was born on December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts.

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