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By Emily Dickinson. “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 -
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.
"Hope is the thing with feathers" (written around 1861) is a popular poem by the American poet Emily Dickinson. In the poem, "Hope" is metaphorically transformed into a strong-willed bird that lives within the human soul—and sings its song no matter what.
Historically, "Hope" is the thing with feathers— fits within the broader context of 19th-century American literature, which often engaged with themes of nature, resilience, and the human condition.
"'Hope' is the thing with feathers" is a lyric poem in ballad meter written by American poet Emily Dickinson. The manuscript of this poem appears in Fascicle 13, which Dickinson compiled around 1861. [1]
Feb 11, 2016 · In her analysis of ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers’ in her book Dickinson, which contains a raft of fascinating and convincing readings of individual poems by Emily Dickinson, the critic Helen Vendler invites us to ponder the significance of the word ‘thing’.
Throughout, ‘Hope is the Thing with Feathers,’ The narrator perceives hope as a bird that resides inside humans. It persists dutifully without a break, singing constantly. Using metaphor, she emphasizes it sings vigorously during a hurricane, requiring a heavy storm to lay the bird in peace.
Emily Dickinson. 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.
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.
sweat soaks my neck and back; stones clog my shoes, flies prick my flaming face and ears, bramble draws thin lines of blood on my arms. There is a surfeit of love hidden here; at least this is the way faith asserts itself. I emerge from the valley of contradictions, my heart beating with the effort, and stand looking.
