Hope is the thing with feathersThat 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
That's a sweet poem! I know basically nothing about poetry (shameful, right?) but I do think it's amazing and people who can do it are utterly talented.
ReplyDeleteYou don't have to know it to appreciate it. :) I love how the poet has one idea in mind when she writes the poem, but each reader comes away with something different.
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