Hope
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 Dickenson
This is my favorite poem of all time -- well, almost.
How does the bird perch in your soul today? Does it sing to you?
Its tune is without words -- Is our hope only a matter of words? Is hope always possible?
Why is hope "sweetest" during a storm?
Ah, back to the final paper (due tomorrow), dearest RevGals....
I love this poem.
ReplyDeleteOne of my favorites, as well. I've used it as a text for preaching, during Advent, alongside the lectionary.
ReplyDelete