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 lived all her life in Massachusetts, USA. Never traveled far, but her words took flight and her poems are known all over the world. My favorite is this one above. I wonder if she could imagine that after centuries her words will still be traveling and touching the soul of many people.
Today’s word for Sunday Stills is flight, so nothing better than feathers and a poem about feathers to make our imagination fly away.
