Emily Dickinson's poems in translation/Polish/Hope is the Thing with Feathers/Higginson and Todd's edition

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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.[1]

Source[edit | edit source]

  1. http://metaphors.iath.virginia.edu/metaphors/18064