"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
American Poet
(1830-1886)

 

Poetry Corner

Page 4 | Page 6

HOMESITE MAP