When at the Hay Festival last Saturday, Max Porter mentioned Emily Dickinson as one of his favourites – among others I can’t remember because I was too awe-struck by his magic with words to have coherent thoughts.
It happened that I have one of her poems on my wall, downstairs in my study, above the sewing machine:
Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson
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.
And because I feel happy this morning, I’m giving you another, it’s called ‘A Book’, which I thought was in theme with my weekend.
A book by Emily Dickinson
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
Have a good week.