Hope

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.

~Emily Dickinson

I dreamed about this poem last night. I have always loved it. It was my inspiration this past winter. I tried to remember it whenever I was feeling particularly anxious. However, it was more an exercise in "acting as if". I didn't actually feel very hopeful. I was so afraid Mary was going to die during, or right after, her surgery. When I woke this morning, with the remnants of Miss Dickenson's sweet verse on my mind, I finally truly felt hopeful. Mary's feeling pretty good, too.