Department of English
Faculty of Arts, Chulalongkorn University
"Hope is the thing with feathers—"
(1890)
Emily
Dickinson
(December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886)
Hope
is the thing with feathers – |
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That
perches in the soul – |
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And
sings the tune without the words – |
|
And never stops at all – |
|
|
|
And
sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – |
5 |
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 – | 10 |
Yet – never – in Extremity, | |
It asked a crumb – of me. | |
Notes
7 abash: discompose, shake
11 in Extremity:
What
was the United States like that Whitman and Dickinson were born into?
Source: Ed
Folsom, Selected American Authors: Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman
EMILY DICKINSON is born in 1830, the year President Andrew Jackson signs the Great Removal act, forcibly resettling all Indians west of the Mississippi; Jackson addresses the nation, "What good man would prefer a country covered with forests and ranged by a few thousand savages to our extensive Republic, studded with cities, towns, and prosperous farms, embellished with all the improvements which art can devise or industry execute?" The Sac and Fox tribes, over objections of chief Black Hawk, give up all their lands east of Mississippi River ; Choctaws do the same; other tribes like Chickasaws follow suit within a year or two. Only the Cherokees, literate farmers who wanted citizenship, hold out. In 1832, Black Hawk leads some Sac and Fox back across Mississippi into Illinois --they are eventually ambushed and massacred in the Michigan Territory , and Black Hawk is turned over to U.S. authorities by the Winnebago Indians. Major Congressional debate is over whether or not the sale of Western lands should be restricted; Western senators sense a plot by Eastern business interests to close the West so that cheap labor stays in the Northeast where factories demand low-paid workers. Joseph Smith publishes "The Book of Mormon", based on his deciphering of golden plates he claimed to have found on an upstate New York mountain, detailing the true church as descended through American Indians who were apparently part of the lost tribes of Israel (an idea quite common in early 19th-century America). The next year, 1831, Alexis de Tocqueville arrives in the U.S. and begins his journey around the country that would result in his massive book of observations, "Democracy in America ," including his analysis of “the three races in America ” (black, red, and white). Nat Turner, a Virginia slave who had visions from God of white spirits and black spirits engaged in bloody combat, leads a revolt with seven other slaves, killing his master and his family; with 75 insurgent slaves, he killed more than 50 whites on a two-day journey to Jerusalem, Virginia, where he was hanged along with sixteen of his companions (many other blacks are killed during the manhunt for Turner). The Turner Insurrection was the stuff of nightmares for white Southerners, who passed increasingly severe slave codes. The song "America" is sung for the first time in Boston on July 4.
Poetry
Poems (1891)
“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. |
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 |
791
God gave a Loaf to
every Bird — But just a Crumb — to Me — I dare not eat it — tho’ I starve — My poignant luxury — To own it — touch it — Prove the feat — that made the Pellet mine — Too happy — for my Sparrow’s chance — For Ampler Coveting — It might be Famine — all around — I could not miss an Ear — Such Plenty smiles upon my Board — My Garner shows so fair — I wonder how the Rich — may feel — An Indiaman — An Earl — I deem that I — with but a Crumb — Am Sovereign of them all — |
5 10 15 |
690
Victory comes late — And is held low to freezing lips — Too rapt with frost To take it — How sweet it would have tasted — Just a Drop — Was God so economical? His Table’s spread too high for Us — Unless We dine on tiptoe — Crumbs — fit such little mouths — Cherries — suit Robins — The Eagle’s Gold Breakfast strangles — Them — God keep His Oath to Sparrows — Who of little Love — know how to starve — |
5 10 |
579
I had been hungry, all
the Years — My Noon had Come — to dine — I trembling drew the Table near — And touched the Curious Wine — ’Twas this on Tables I had seen — When turning, hungry, Home — I looked in Windows, for the Wealth I could not hope — for Mine — I did not know the ample Bread — ’Twas so unlike the Crumb The Birds and I, had often shared In Nature’s — Dining Room — The Plenty hurt me — ’twas so new — Myself felt ill — and odd — As Berry — of a Mountain Bush — Transplanted — to the Road — Nor was I hungry — so I found That Hunger — was a way Of Persons outside Windows — The Entering — takes away — |
5 10 15 20 |
To T. W. Higginson
15 April 1862
Mr. Higginson,
Are you too deeply occupied to say if my Verse is alive?
The mind is so near itself—it cannot see, distinctly—and I have none to ask—
Should you think it breathed—and had you the leisure to tell me, I should feel quick gratitude—
If I make the mistake—that you dared to tell me—would give me sincerer honor—toward you—
I enclose my name—asking you, if you please—Sir—to tell me what is true?
That you will not betray me—it is needless to ask—since Honor is it's [sic] own pawn—
—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Belknap P, 1971, p. 171.
To T. W. Higginson
25 April 1862
Mr. Higginson
Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude—but I was ill—and write today, from my pillow.
Thank you for the surgery—it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others—as you ask—though they might not differ—
While my thought is undressed—I can make the distinction, but when I put them in the Gown—they look alike, and numb.
You asked how old I was? I made no verse—but one or two—until this winter—Sir—
I had a terror—since September—I could tell to none—and so I sing, as the Boy does by the Burying Ground—because I am afraid—You inquire my Books—For Poets—I have Keats—and Mr and Mrs Browning. For Prose—Mr Ruskin—Sir Thomas Browne—and the Revelations. I went to school—but in your manner of the phrase—had no education. When a little Girl, I had a friend, who taught me Immortality—but venturing too near, himself—he never returned—Soon after, my Tutor, died—and for several years, my Lexicon—was my only companion—Then I found one more—but he was not contented I be his scholar—so he left the Land.
You ask of my Companions Hills—Sir—and the Sundown—and a Dog—large as myself, that my Father bought me—They are better [end of page 172] than beings—because they know—but do not tell—and the noise in the Pool, at Noon—excels my Piano. I have a Brother and Sister—My Mother does not care for thought—and Father, too busy with his Briefs—to notice what we do—He buys me many Books—but begs me not to read them—because he fears they joggle the Mind. They are religious—except me—and address an Eclipse, every morning—whom they call their "Father." But I fear my story fatigues you—I would like to learn—Could you tell me how to grow—or is it unconveyed—like Melody—or Witchcraft?
You speak of Mr Whitman—I never read his Book—but was told that he was disgraceful—
I read Miss Prescott's "Circumstance," but it followed me, in the Dark—so I avoided her—
Two Editors of Journals came to my Father's House, this winter—and asked me for my Mind—and when I asked them "Why," they said I was penurious—and they, would use it for the World—
I could not weigh myself—Myself—
My size felt small—to me—I read your chapters in the Atlantic—and experienced honor for you—I was sure you would not reject a confiding question—
Is this—Sir—what you asked me to tell you?
Your friend,
E—Dickinson.
—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Belknap P, 1971, p. 172–73.
Study Questions
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Vocabulary
fascicle
Sample Student Responses to Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' is the thing with feathers —"
Response 1:
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Reference
Link |
Texts
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Emily
Dickinson |
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Reference
Dickinson, Emily. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Edited by Thomas H. Johnson. Little, Brown, 1960.
Further
Reading
Eberwein, Jane Donahue, Stephanie Farrar, and Cristanne Miller, eds. Dickinson in Her Own Time: A Biographical Chronicle of Her Life, Drawn from Recollections, Interviews, and Memoirs by Family, Friends, and Associates. Iowa: U of Iowa P, 2015. Print.
Grabher, Gudrun, Roland Hagenbüchle, and Cristanne Miller, eds. The Emily Dickinson Handbook. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 1998. Print.
Griffith, Clark. The Long Shadow: Emily Dickinson's Tragic Poetry. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1964. Print.
Kirby, Joan. Emily Dickinson. New York: St.
Martin's Press, 1991. Print.
Martin, Wendy. The Cambridge Companion to Emily Dickinson. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002. Print.
Martin, Wendy. The Cambridge Introduction to Emily Dickinson. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2007. Print.
Miller, Cristanne. Emily Dickinson: A Poet's Grammar. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1989. Print.
Miller, Cristanne. Reading in Time: Emily Dickinson in the Nineteenth Century. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 2012. Print.
Mitchell, Domhnall. Emily Dickinson: Monarch of Perception. Amherst: U of Massachusetts P, 2000. Print.
Sewall, Richard B. The Life of Emily Dickinson. New York: Farrar Straus and Giroux, 1974. Print.
Smith, Martha Nell, and Mary Loeffelholz, eds. A Companion to Emily Dickinson. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008. Print.
Socarides, Alexandra. Dickinson Unbound: Paper, Process, Poetics. Oxford: OUP, 2014. Print.
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