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"Hope is the thing with feathers..." Poetry Broadside

HOPE Broadside

Warm Summer Greetings from St Brigid Press!

We are inaugurating our SBP Poetry Broadside Series with a limited-edition print of this beloved poem by Emily Dickinson, decorated with an original block carving by SBP printer Emily Hancock. When Dickinson first penned this verse around 1861, America was in the initial throes of civil war, and through the century-and-a-half since, its themes of courage and ever-available hope have remained relevant, revelatory, and inspiring. (Read the full text of the poem at the end of this post.)

The text-body of "Hope is the thing with feathers..." has been hand-set in Victor Hammer's wonderful American Uncial typeface, with hand-set Lombardic Capitals illuminating the opening word "Hope," in forest-green oil-based ink. The broadside is letterpress-printed with the 1914 Chandler and Price treadled press, on lush Rives 100% cotton mouldmade paper. Decorative Thai kozo-and-banana-bark paper frames the title and the carving. The decorative feather was hand-carved here at the Press, and printed on the Rives paper with warm brown ink. Ready for framing, the broadside is matted with forest-green acid-free board, and backed with sturdy acid-free foamboard (mat is lightly affixed to the backing board with archival artists' tape).

Produced in a limited edition of 40, with 30 available for purchase. $35 each. Finished size: 12"x16". To order, please go to the SBP Online Store. For more information, Contact Us.

With thanks, and good Summer wishes to all!

St Brigid Press

Hand-setting "Hope" with the lovely and historic Lombardic capitals typeface.

Letterpress printed with forest-greet ink onto Rives paper, mouldmade in France.

Hand-carving the feather (shown here highlighted with the warm-brown ink).

Close-up of printed carving, with colophon.


FULL TEXT of the poem by Emily Dickinson:

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.