Hope is a conundrum. It’s very difficult to live a happy life without it, but, at the same time, it can lead to disappointment which leads to unhappiness. Sometimes it’s even necessary to abandon all hope because a situation is, uh, shall we say, hopeless? We humans can actually grieve over the loss of hope — such grief is despair. No one wants that, but sometimes you can’t choose.
Still, I think Emily Dickinson and Thomas Hardy both wrote perfect poems explaining 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.
And, sometimes when you write the Daily Prompt you learn something. I just learned that the American robin is a true thrush, and, for the large number of people who don’t like winter, the sight of spring’s first robin is always a hopeful sign.