‘HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS' 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 in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

“Emily Dickinson's poem was published in 1861.  She spent most of her adult life as a recluse living in her family home, only rarely venturing out.  She was very quiet and timid, never married or actively sought a permanent relationship, despite correspondence with several older men she viewed as her protectors.

Her poetry is full of figurative language, and this poem is an extended metaphore, transforming hope into a bird (the poet loved birds) that is ever present in the human soul.  It sings, especially when times get tough.  Hope springs eternal, might be a reasonable summing up.”

I recently found this in my drafts and must have been in the middle of putting it together (a poem I have read many times over the years, as many of us have no doubt).  I don’t remember where this information came from, as it is one of those where I was probably distracted and forgot to make note of the link.  And then I forgot I was in the middle of posting it, and didn't - smiling here.   She is one of my favorite poets.