This poem by Emily Dickinson has always been
A favorite. I’ve always thought “golden” was part
of it and so although there is not actually a color
In the title or poem, still I think of the color of gold
Reading these lines.

“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.”

—Emily Dickinson