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 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.