Dickinson, that is.


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.


One of my favourite poems inspired a bit of bunting I gave to an English teacher friend for her birthday. The gorgeous embroidered rick-rack came from a lovely little shop in Bath— alas, I cannot remember what it was called.
The buttons are made of tagua and I bought them in Ecuador.

You could easily do something similar with a holiday theme.


2 thoughts on “Emily

  1. Oh, yes! “Haunting” is the perfect word, isn’t it? Especially when you consider Dickinson’s life- the idea of her clinging to hope in the face of her own agoraphobia is so sad…

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