Emily Dickinson

 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. 

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I held a jwel in my fingers

And went to sleep the day was warm and the winds were prosy

I said: "T will keep."

I woke and chid my honest fingers

The gem was gone

And now an amethyst remembrance

Is all I own

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We never know we go, when we are going

     We jest and shut the door

Fate following behind us bolts it

    And we accost no more

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If I should die

And you should live

And time should gurgle on

And morn should beam

And the moon should burn

As it has always done

If birds should build as early

And bees as busting go

One might depart at option

From enterprise below

"T is sweet to know that stocks will stand

When we with daisies lie

That comemerce will continue

And trades as briskly fly

It makes the parting tranquil

And keeps the soul serene

That gentlemen no sprightly

Conduct the pleasing scene!

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I NEVER lost as much but twice,

And that was in the sod;

Twice have I stood a beggar

Before the door of God!

 

Angels, twice descending,

Reimbursed my store.

Burglar, banker, father,

I am poor once more!

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Come slowly, Eden!

Lips unused to thee,

Bashful, sip thy jasmines,

As the fainting bee,

 

Reaching late his flower,

Round her chamber hums,

Counts his nectars--enters,

And is lost in balms!