Hello All. Today’s prompt was to take a poem by Emily Dickinson, strip it of its dashes, and put it together as prose, then break it apart again into a new poem. I have chosen Hope is the thing with feathers. Here is her poem #274.
Hope is a thing with feathers (274) 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 here is my version, with only respect to Miss Dickinson.
The Song The Bird is the soul that perches, with feathers, and sings. The tune, without words, should never stop at all. Never stop in the storm, never wash away in the gale. The sweetest songs must go on, to keep the many warm. I’ve heard over land and sea, the chillest, strangest song. And yet never, even in extreme adversity, has the little Bird asked anything more than for me to sing along.
