Why--do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing--too loud?
But--I can say a little "Minor"
Timid as a Bird!
Wouldn't the Angels try me--
Just--once--more--
Just--see--if I troubled them--
But don't--shut the door!
Oh, if I--were the Gentleman
In the "White Robe"--
And they--were the little Hand--that knocked--
Could--I--forbid?
-Emily Dickinson
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
