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- 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
poetrysociety.org.uk/poems/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers/
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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 -.
Hope is the thing with feathers Lyrics. "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...
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" 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 ...
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.
‘Hope is a thing with feathers’ is one of Dickinson’s most optimistic poems. It focuses on the personification of hope. She depicts it as a bird that perches inside her soul and sings. The bird asks for nothing. It is at peace and is, therefore, able to impart the same hope and peace to the speaker. She can depend on it, and take pleasure ...
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.