Dickinson Poem

[Spartan936]

Every day is a new beginning with a new chance at life. At an intense time of my life I stumbled upon this poem by Emily Dickinson. I'll never be the same.

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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I find that it means that there is always hope, always a chance at happiness. We will never be foresaken, yet there are times when we act as if no one loves us, and we take this hope for granted. Happiness is a choice. What do you guys think?

[amuse]

i need to read it a few times, but that last line - gorgeous...Hope for it's own sake, and of its own natue: too cool.

[emily655321]

I find that it means that there is always hope, always a chance at happiness. We will never be foresaken, yet there are times when we act as if no one loves us, and we take this hope for granted. Happiness is a choice. What do you guys think?
I think that's something you inferred on the poem yourself. I don't see it in there. Actually, I've always interpreted the poem as meaning the exact opposite: that hope is an independent force that will always be with you, no matter how bleak things get; it isn't a choice of either/or -- either sadness or hope. Rather, you don't have to struggle to be hopeful when things are going badly, just take comfort in knowing that hope always exists, even when your sense of it is obscured by the "storm" -- just because you can't feel it, doesn't mean it's disappeared.

Personally, I don't believe "hope" is some kind of cosmic force -- I don't really think Dickinson did, either, -- this is just an example of her tendency to deal with emotion by anthropomorphizing it, for the sake of metaphor.

It would be nice if it were only a matter of "choosing" happiness.

[Spartan936]

Rather, you don't have to struggle to be hopeful when things are going badly, just take comfort in knowing that hope always exists, even when your sense of it is obscured by the "storm" -- just because you can't feel it, doesn't mean it's disappeared.

It would be nice if it were only a matter of "choosing" happiness.

Oh, that's what I meant silly. ;) I know there is always hope, but sometimes, when we are down, we try our best to deny it.

I think happiness is a simple, yet difficult choice chosen under complex circumstances. Why shouldn't we be happy in any situation? I don't practice what I preach, but what is stopping us from total contentment with everything around us? aaRight Right Right, Alex? :D

[emily655321]

Nearly right, droogy. ;) :D What I meant was that happiness and hope are mutually exclusive; having hope doesn't necessarily make you happy, and unhappiness doesn't necessarily impede hope. Hope is more like an awareness that the potential for happiness exists. I think we're defining "happiness" differently, is what it is. If I understand you right, you mean happiness as "contentment" or "satisfaction with your lot in life." I'm thinking of happiness more along the lines of good feelings/endorphins.

[seeker]

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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I will memorize this, thank you so much!

It is often hard to find specific verses of hers as they are all in one long numbered sequence, do you know what number this was?

thnx

[summer grace]

I have always liked this poem, although it's not one of my Dickinson favourites. I think it means hope is always there, it exists, and that it asks nothing of you except that you believe in it, and always know it is there. It might seem foreign sometimes, in some sitiuations that hope exists, but if you see it, there's hope in anything. I stumbled across a poem by Dickinson in my life too, that helped me, although I can't recall it now.

[Pensive]

I also love this poem. Poets come up with so many beautiful things refarding hope. The other one I like is "To Hope" by John Keats!

[mono]

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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson seems one of the poets I can never grow weary of - her unique expression, raw beauty with words, and undeniable love for art for art's sake.
This, too, has always seemed one of my favorite poems by her, as well as the following poem . . .

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –