Monday, January 24, 2011

Poem Number 254

Last night, while curled around my Johnson's Complete Emily Dickinson, I hatched a scheme.  Wouldn't it be nice to work on a photography project that marries Dickinson's poems to images?  It has me looking at the world in a slightly different light.  This morning, as I drove across the Champlain Bridge into the city, I saw the most ethereal fog rising from the river and wrapping itself around the small islands that dot the way across.  It had me thinking of which one of her poems could fit into the misty scene.  I thought I'd begin this small project with my favourite of favourites: Number 254.

Image from Flickr

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.

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