Hello, this is the poem I read at my fathers’ funeral. It speaks to me as I feel his presence around me all the time in nature. For example, he used to feed the birds so when they pop by to continue the tradition, I sense him near. I don’t personally find comfort visiting his grave site, as he’s not there…
I find a lot of comfort in poetry, I like to write myself. I would like share the most precious poem to me. It has soothed my aching soul a thousand times.
It is one of 2 poems I read at my sons’ recent funeral. We always had hope we would overcome his disease, and although that hope has gone, it captures perfectly his humility.
Please little bird come sing to me ….
EMILY DICKINSON (1861)
“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.