Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.

Part One: Life

XXXII



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; 5

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; 10

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

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no luck on the baby end. no luck in selling the house. no luck in saving money to go to india.

hope. yes i do believe (faintly sometimes, strongly at others) that everything will work out. i will get pregnant soon. i will sell the house and get to move into a new house. i will be able to take my honey to india.

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