Certain things — words, moments, jokes — arrive just when I need them. A friend sent me a beautiful, letterpressed card this week with a stanza from a poem by Emily Dickinson that brought tears to my eyes. Here is the poem.
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.
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4 comments:
beautiful
Ahhh, hope. There is nothing like it. Here is one I wrote shortly after diagnosis:
Hope
hope remains undeterred.
she pulls on her jeans, ties her boots
and walks out the door for another test.
she glows below the autumn trees
feet hitting pavement as they’ve always done.
hope is my best friend,
sometimes i’m unsure if she’s beside me or within me
if these boots are mine or hers.
So beautiful and so true.
well it's perfect isn't it?
I would print it, laminate it, read it as you start chemo , keep it close and know that all of us wish that for you. HOPE.
We are all your "Holders of HOPE."
*hug*
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