Tuesday, January 8, 2013

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
Emily Dickinson 1830–1886

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.

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