Read the poem “hope is the thing with feathers,” by emily dickinson.
hope is the thing with feathers
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.
what is the theme of this poem?
without hope, people are not human.
hope does not give up, even when life is difficult.
people hope for things that do not come true.
spring is a hopeful season.

He leaned his head against the wall; his eyes were shut, his hands clasped in each other, and his body seemed to be sustained in an upright position merely by the cellar-door against which he rested his left shoulder. the lethargy into which he was sunk seemed scarcely interrupted by my feeling his hand and his forehead. his throbbing temples and burning skin indicated a fever . . there was only one circumstance that hindered me from forming an immediate determination in what manner this person should be treated. my family consisted of my wife and a young child. our servant-maid had been seized, three days before, by the reigning malady, and, at her own request, had been conveyed to the hospital. we ourselves enjoyed good health, and were hopeful of escaping with our lives. our measures for this end had been cautiously taken and carefully adhered to. they did not consist in avoiding the receptacles of infection, for my office required me to go daily into the midst of them; nor in filling the house with the exhalations of gunpowder, vinegar, or tar. they consisted in cleanliness, reasonable exercise, and wholesome diet. who is the story’s first-person narrator