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.
I heard this poem recently for the first time. I like it. As an avid bird watcher, the metaphor is particularly appealing to me, particularly moving. I just love the image of "hope" that the poem creates for me.
I've been through quite a terrific storm of late, but it still has not been enough to thoroughly abash the bird - the song - of hope that has been perched, throughout my life, in my soul. It may be the Phoenix, rising again and again, but it is there regardless.
Here are a few recent images. The very fact that I've had the camera out at all shows that the Phoenix is Rising.
Hope is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.
Here's a funny series, just for fun:
Bird holds prize slice of bread.
Bird is chased by competitor for prize.
Bird is intimidated by competitor and drops prize.
Neither bird nor competitor ultimately wins prize.
Here are a few other random recent images:
Mt. Rainier view from the Mountlake Fill area near the University of Washington.
Blue sky across the Mountlake Fill.
Another view of Mt. Rainier, now with a "hat" supposedly predicting rain (which we never got, thus dispelling the "hat" theory as just a myth).
Cherry trees in bloom in Everett.
Colorful leafless twigs at the Mountlake Fill.
