The lethal sun lights
the rainbow-jewels in your carbon-black wings.
With undefeated hope,
you fling yourself
over and over
at the nature-defying barrier.
Your chattering chums cheer you on
from the grandstand of the neighbour’s roof;
the blue sky beyond beckons.
We, the omniscient giants,
we slide the window-sashes up and down
showing the way,
chanting in chorus:
'Out ye go, ye wee stuckie!'
But still, you flutter and struggle:
the teasing transparent tantalus
shows you the life you desire,
taunts you with the
breath of the blossom
in the bird cherry beyond,
just out of reach.
Until, keeping you at arm’s length
with a long pole,
we guide you gently to freedom.
Hope was enough:
it saw you through.
Dickinson, Emily (1999). Hope is the thing with feathers(this link will open in a new window) in Franklin, R. W. (ed.). The poems of Emily Dickinson. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press.