Emily Dickinson: A Few Favorites

Last night before bed, I read a collection of Emily Dickinson's poems. I had sweet dreams. Coincidence? I think not.

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Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

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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.

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A word is dead
     When it is said,
     Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
     That day.