“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
On my way to our state's Poetry Out Loud competition this morning to root for a ninth grader from my school who'll be performing this American classic, among other worthy poems.
It's a perfect blue-sky day for a train ride along the water, a brisk walk to a lovely lunch, and an afternoon of poetry performances!