It’s a dreary day in New England. I’m winding down my work day and wanted to share an inspiring poem written by one of the best.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sing 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.
Final Harvest. Emily Dickinson 63, (254)
Reblogged this on A Year and a Half and commented:
I just read this and it occurred to me there really is hardly any point in life at which the poem would not be powerful and applicable.
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Yes! So good I had to reblog!
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Thank you!
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You’ve posted Dickinson before, yes? Such depth in her words; love Dickinson. π
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Morning! Yes, I have. I should probably find those and put them in the same category. I’m so very bad at organizing this blog! If you ever visit New England, be sure to go to Amherst, MA and view her home.
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π
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Dickinson was brilliant
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I agree. Thank you for the comment.
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No prob!
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