The Season of Hope Continues

A person I know gave me the first stanza of the following poem by Emily Dickenson last week as an example of what treatment and recovery are all about. I was so taken by it I looked up the whole poem. Ponder and grow. I sure have.

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.

From Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part One: Life
XXXII
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