Tags
17th century, 19th century, England, literature, poetry, seasons
by Emily Dickinson
“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.
Note: Each March, just when winter seems endless, I watch for the return to Connecticut of the red winged blackbirds. The males arrive first, to claim their territory, and it always gives my heart a lift to see one or more perched upon the highest branches of the trees. This year, there seem to be fewer……
