Read more poems by Emily Dickinson: Emily Dickinson Poems at Poetry X.
254 "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.
Added: 9 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:18 PM | Viewed: 40950 times
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Emily Dickinson
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