Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
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.
Ive heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson made up a word with chillest. She is very clever with assonance in the penultimate line: Yet, never, in extremity. Wow! Thats a lot of repeating of that vowel! Did anyone ever before fit extremity into a poem and maintain iambic rhythm as this one does? I love the SOUND of this poem in addition to the clever comparison of hope to a bird that chirps away despite dire conditions, silenced only in extreme duress.
