Emily Dickinson today.
For my sweet sister.
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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
The Poetry Friday round up can be found today at Picture Book of the Day.
7 comments:
Hope all is well with you and your sister. The Dickens poem that resonated with me this week was this:
~~~~~~~~~~~~
21.
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
Hi, Tadmack -- You're sweet. :) Yes, we're fine. Just something that came up recently that caused us to discuss hope.
I love your selection.
I keep hoping to see Emily D.'s house in western Mass. and take a side trip to the Eric Carle Museum. It's only a couple of hours from here.
Like that Hope poem of hers.
It's sweet to read both of those Dickinson poems today. Thanks!
I just read that Dickinson poem the other day. So beautiful. Thanks!!
Thanks for reminding me about the thing with feathers inside my soul. I had lost track of its song.
Emily never gets old for me. I have a sweet sister, too, and she's found new hope lately in many ways. I'm so grateful.
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