Hope Is The Thing With Feathers<br>By Emily Dickinson<br>Hope is the thing with feathers<br>That perches in the soul,<br>And sings the tune without the words,<br>And never stops at all,<br>And sweetest in the gale is heard;<br>And sore must be the storm<br>That could abash the little bird<br>That kept so many warm.<br>Ive heard it in the chillest land,<br>And on the strangest sea;<br>Yet, never, in extremity,<br>It asked a crumb of me.<br>Emily Dickinson made up a word with chillest. She is very clever with assonance in the penultimate line: Yet, never, in extremity. Wow! Thats a lot of repeating of that vowel! Did anyone ever before fit extremity into a poem and maintain iambic rhythm as this one does? I love the SOUND of this poem in addition to the clever comparison of hope to a bird that chirps away despite dire conditions, silenced only in extreme duress.
