Emily Dickinson
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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.
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I tried this poem with “my” new favorite script, but I’m worried it’s becoming a thoughtless default, so I tried again in cursive with brush and fountain pen.
I’m not sure any of these are the right fit for the poem, but I’m also trying to avoid torturing myself over these one-off poems. I’ve got plenty of second-guessing while scribing those books!
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