“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 found this poem printed on a piece of paper one day and happened to pick it up. I had read the words before, maybe in a high school English class, but they had never resonated with me until that day. Now I keep the poem wedged in the corner of my mirror where I look at it every morning. Somehow, the imagery continues to comfort me. A small bird, eternally singing of the light it believes in. Something to believe in me.