Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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.

1. A Poor Torn Heart, a Tattered Heart
2. Delight Becomes Pictorial
3. A Thought Went up My Mind To-day
4. Is Heaven a Physician?
5. Too Much

Mathilde Blind Hope ("All treasures of the earth and opulent seas")

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