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.
-Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886
Hope is hard.
I’ve been asking myself what it looks like to hope and I stumbled across this gem.
Maybe hope is like a song, notes going up and down. Maybe it’s soft in the storms, almost imperceptible through the wild winds. I imagine when the sea finally calms, and the sun rises, the little bird’s song grows louder, clearer, and louder still. Perhaps the courage of the feathery thing to begin a song will draw the others in to sing along.