Poem #314 (c. 1862)
“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.
Emily Dickinson, The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Ed. R. W. FRanklin. Cambridge, Massachusetts, and London, England: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999.
Fonte: O prazer de (com)parar #14