Sunday, November 6, 2011

Hope (Emily Dickinson)
"Hope is a thing with feathers,"
That perches in the soul,
sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all.

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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