Hope, by 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 chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
This poem has brought tears to my eyes multiple times, as it is truly meaningful in regards to my own life. Emily Dickinson has been one of my favourite poets (poetess?) for an extraordinarily long time now, and I've even written multiple research papers on her, her life, and her work. I think I may be just a tad... obsessed with her, because anytime I find a fictional or non-fictional book related to Dickinson, I have to have it. For anyone who is interested, my favourite fictional novel about her (and her sister Lavinia) is "The Sister: A Novel of Emily Dickinson" by the late Paola Kaufmann. Check it out.
(Oh, and keep the votes coming on my poll- what do you want me to write about?)