Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Emily Dickinson Detour


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.

I think this was just necessary at this precise moment. Sometimes in particular moments, be they sparse or close upon themselves,
you just need some Emily Dickinson.

No comments:

Post a Comment