I've published lots of posts on white feathers and white doves. The following poem was pointed out to me because of this. It's about how hope comes to us, like a bird, no matter how dark the day.
I hadn't heard of the poem previously or the poet. I've since found out that Emily Dickinson was an American poet, 1830 - 1886, who was born in Amherst, Massachusetts.
'Hope' is the thing with feathers
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
Other Poetry Posts:
Death Is Nothing At All
The Young Soul Of The Cranky Old Man
We All Need Love And Kindness Not Bullying And Hate
