The poet Emily Dickinson died today in 1886 at the age of 55. Cause: nephritis. House-bound by inclination, solitary by nature, she had not left home - literally - since 1865. In her name and honor I thought I'd share one of my favorite Dickinson poems.
HOPE
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.
While it's not necessarily true that hope costs us nothing, I still like this poem since I am, despite my outward attitude, an essentially hopeful person. (A surprise to some, I know.)
To read about Emily Dickinson's life.
