A Quote by Emily Dickinson

Hope is a thing with feathers — © Emily Dickinson
Hope is a thing with feathers
How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not "the thing with feathers." The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
In painting feathers, you want to create the look of feathers, but if you try to paint all the feathers, you have nothing but disaster.
Without feathers it isn't easy to fly: my wings have got no feathers. [Lat., Sine pennis volare hau facilest: meae alae pennas non habent.] [Alt., Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.]
Hope may or may not be a Thing with Feathers. But it’s definitely a Thing with Claws.
When Emily Dickinson writes, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,” she reminds us, as the birds do, of the liberation and pragmatism of belief.
Ani felt a stirring, a hope, a winged thing waking up in her chest and brushing her heart with it's feathers.
To be hopeful, to embrace one possibility after another--that is surely the basic instinct. Baser even than hate, the thing with teeth, which can be stilled with a tone of voice or stunned by beauty. If the whole world of the living has to turn on the single point of remaining alive, that pointed endurance is the poetry of hope. The thing with feathers.
Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. Hope is one of those things that you can't buy, but that will be freely given to you if you ask. Hope is the one thing people cannot live without. Hope is a thing of beauty.
I'm one of those people who was taught not to ruffle any feathers. Of course, I have no problem ruffling feathers.
Flying without feathers is not easy: my wings have no feathers.
A few days back someone sent me two feathers. Two bird's feathers in a sheet of note-paper with a coronet, and fastened with a seal. Sent from a place a long way off; from one who need not have sent them back at all. That amused me too, those devilish green feathers.
Feathers filled the small room. Our laughter kept the feathers in the air. I thought about birds. Could they fly is there wasn't someone, somewhere, laughing?
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 chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
We flashed our feathers when the feathers were fit to be flashed, and now, in drearier days, many stay indoors.
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