The Return of Poetry

No, your eyes do not deceive you -- I am indeed posting on a Thursday, even though it's not one of my current regular days to blog! But for the month of April, National Poetry Month, I'll be sharing poetry each Thursday along with Bonny, Kat, and Kym. If you haven't already, be sure to check out their posts today for the selections they've shared.

The theme for this first week was Hope. Because of how this week ended up, I did a bit of a cop-out and went to an old standby: Emily Dickinson. I'm actually sharing two poems this week because I suspect most (or at least many) of you are probably familiar with this first one or at least its first line:

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.

Here is the second one, less familiar to me:

Hope is a subtle glutton;
    He feeds upon the fair;
And yet, inspected closely,
    What abstinence is there!

His is the halcyon table
    That never seats but one,
And whatsoever is consumed
    The same amounts remain.

In these times when there is so much suffering in the world, I wish you hope that never gets consumed.