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.
by Emily Dickinson
Sure, I like to go out–but sometimes I need to stay in for some Soul Care.
Emily Dickinson put it this way:
The soul that hath a Guest
doth seldom go abroad-
Diviner crowd at home
obliterate the need
and courtesy forbid
a host’s departure when
upon himself be visiting
The Emperor of Men.
It was too late for man-
But early, yet, for God–
Creation –impotent to help-
but prayer –remained-our side
How excellent the Heaven-
When Earth – cannot be had–
how hospitable –then the face
of our Old Neighbor-God—
To wait an hour is long
if love be just beyond—
To wait eternity is short
if love reward the end.
The Truth is stirless
Other force may be presumed to move
This then is best for confidence
When oldest cedars swerve
And oaks untwist their fists
And mountains feeble lean
How excellent a body that
stands without a bone
How vigorous a force
that holds without a prop
Truth stays herself-and every man
that trusts Her-boldy up-
•Emily Dickinson (c.1863)
Dickinson wrote poems peppered with dashes, which gives her poetry an odd (and differing) interpretation. I tend to remove most of them and let the reader make the interpretation. (She also tended to capitalize without regard for rules.)
