"Hope is the thing with feathers..."

by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

It sings the tune without the words

And doesn't stop at all

And sweetest in the Gale must be

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

Who's kept so many warm.

by Robert C. Frost

I caught it in a gentle breeze

though times, like seasons fade,

and clash against a darkened sky,

I bid it on its way.

On summer nights I sit and rest,

beneath a starry sky,

and listen to it howl away,

until the morning rise.

Often do I see it dance,

across a trembling sea,

and often do I hear her voice,

echo soft to me.

The Eagle , A Fragment

He clasps the crag with crooked hands ,

Close the sun in lonely lands ,

Ring'd With the azured world , he stands

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ,

as he watches from his mountain walls ,

And like a thunderbolt he falls ...