Will there really be a “Morning”?
Is there such a thing as “Day”?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I’ve never heard?
Oh some Scholar! oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Man from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called “Morning” lies!
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
“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.