Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers --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.

Posted by mittens at 8:06 AM

2 comments:

  1. Anonymous4/10/2013 10:30 AM

    I like the poem, one of my favorites. I have a song that uses some of those words. Nice cat too. Both of my grand daughters got ran over by cars, so now we has two beautiful kittens....with a black spot on their head,

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  2. mittens4/10/2013 12:47 PM

    I read this again this morning after a very long time, and it just nailed me. Its such a sad poem, and so poignant.

    That's Albert. he's nineteen or thereabouts. There must be something in that water that contributes to healthy cats, he spends a great deal of time there, as does Toby. My black cat, Isabel, prefers her water in a nice clean dish. Snob.

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