"Hope" is the thing with feathers

“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 (1830 - 1886)




This is the Song Thrush who serenaded me this morning as I pottered around the flat.  I find these plucky little birds really endearing, and love the way they give their all when singing at the top of their voices at the very top of their tree.  I've even seen one continue on with his song while clinging precariously to a tall fir which bent back and forth to an alarming degree in a near gale.  The Song Thrush does truly represent hope for me.  I remember waking up one morning feeling devastated after the end of a relationship, and being comforted by the sheer gutsy life force of its song drifting in from outside.


I shall never tire of hearing the Song Thrush, repetitive though his call can often be.  As the poet Robert Browning wrote in 'Home Thoughts From Abroad', "That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, lest you should think he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!"