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.
O retrato da autora é um daguerreótipo datado de 1846 / 1847.
o artigo "Why Emily Dickinson Would Not Smile For the Camera" está aqui
Bom Ano 2009.