Hope by Emily Dickinson

Hope

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.

More Emily Dickinson poetry

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