Wednesday, December 21, 2005

the rest of Ciona's thought

It's not really Ciona's thought, I guess - it's the rest of Emily's thought.

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 (No Snickidy Lime)

A little hope is a dangerous thing.

1 comment:

Ciona said...

For some reason my comment didn't go through last week . . . Yes, hope is both dangerous and promising, and she covers the necessity of it so well in this poem . . .