I thought once when I read this poem that all my immigrant ancestors who came over on ships and the others who rode the prairies in covered wagons traveled on wings of hope to find where it was that they should perch. This poem reminds me of their struggle to find their new homes.
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.