Hope Takes Flight

Warranted or not, this week saw fragile hopes rise of a vaccine effective against SARS-CoV-2.  This reminded of Emily Dickinson's lovely enigmatic poem Hope:

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.