SEVENTH READING

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.

-Emily Dickinson

I've read this eight times actually. The last few times I read it not only did it sound different, but it felt different too. I could feel myself conjuring up what hope feels like and truly craving it. Hope is that spark, that flutter within you that won't abandon you and is always there, even quietly, in the darkest of times. What struck me again and again as I read was that last two lines that say something along the lines of "Hope never ask for anything in return" (personification?). As you read and read you get more of a sense of the authors meaning.