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Emily Dickinson: Hope is the thing with feathers

30. März 2011

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XXXII

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.

from: The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, Introduction and Notes by Rachel Wetzsteon, Barnes & Nobles Classics 2003, p. 22

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