CHANGE

Famous for melancholic poetry, I remember being chilled by Emily Dickinson’s poems that spoke of death. But then… I happened upon this poem while researching for a high school project. I have never forgotten it, and it is SO appropriate today, and into tomorrow.

HOPE

Hope is the things 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.