(A poem by 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 was an American poet who is widely considered one of the most original and influential poets of the 19th century. That despite the fact that less than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems were published during her lifetime.