Hope has a cousin feathered thing

While we're on the subject of birds, here is one by Emily Dickinson and a sort of reply by me.


"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.

Hope has a cousin feathered thing

that perches just the same,

sings equally persistently.

Does this bird have a name?

She sings about some sweet lost prize

as if it still might be.

Her warbling defies science and

forgoes morality.

And if it's hope that brings us warmth

and hope that never dies,

this trilling fowl's immortal too,

hot, haunts the soul's fair skies.

Is there augur can classify

the signs that mark each bird?

One's heard the words, forces the tune.

One hums without the words.