Been waking with this poem rumbling about when in half sleep—middle of the night, at dawn. It slips in while I teach music lessons (now online—a strange experience—making a living in this pandemic). This poem has oft appeared over the years, in remembered bits and pieces, but never daily or multiple times a day—day after day and week after week. So grateful for it, for Emily Dickinson's work overall, for waking up alive. Sharing it, because we need hope in ways none of us ever could have guessed. Sharing it not for the sake literary analysis, but for the sake of love of others.
"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
...
"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
No comments:
Post a Comment