I don't read much poetry, but I do enjoy Emily Dickinson's work. This is one of my favourites and came immediately to mind when I read Jake's prompt:
"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.
For more Sunday post interpretations on Hope, pop over to Jake's blog.