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 has long been a favorite poet of mine, and I’ve loved this particular poem ever since some time in middle school when I first read it. Maybe it’s because it presents such a cheerful and enduring imagery for me, of what hope is like, as a little bird with a beautiful and uplifting song.

I noticed you had numerous other poems by Dickinson, and thought this would be a wonderful addition to your collection, to share with others (I regularly pick a random poem to post on profiles, away messages, etc.) Great site, keep up the hard work! [thanks! - ed.]

~Jessica

Martin adds

I am reminded of Poem #646 - the imagery in the two poems make an interesting blend.