Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Emily Dickinson has to be read in the winter, when the sky grows dark before 5pm and the wind reaches little tendrils down your neck. She has to be read from inside the window, while the light creates shadows on the glass and your forgotten tea steams quietly beside your trembling hand.

"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

Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by R.W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)


  1. Love Emily. She's the one poet of many I would love to have met even tho she probably would be weird at lunch!! Lovely poem...

    1. i love her too, but i only pick her up in these darker months. She belongs there.

  2. Totally agree with you about how Emily is a poet of fall and winter. Absolutely.

    1. She makes me want to wrap myself up in a blanket.


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