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.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha, stop it, Eric, you're killing me.
This is a first. I've never seen Emily Dickinson done anything like this. It's like punk metal Emily Dickinson. It shouts a voice that whispers. It's like sticking dynamite in Emily's Dickinson's butt.
Did you see "feathers?"
I did, but not anything standardized.
Feather 2 (enter "feather")
YouTube (yuk)
Apparently feathers are plucked.
I'd like to see Eric dressed up as Emily Dickinson and do this poem. He seems to understand her differently than most.
2 comments:
I love poetry on the blog Chip.
He's signing to get his rocks off not to get out of the way of the poem.
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