Friday, January 1, 2010


by Emily Dickenson

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.

1 comment:

  1. Oh yeah, I totally had checked over here out, but I didn't leave a comment, so I'm back.

    I am eating this stuff up! The work everyone is doing is stunning. Someday, maybe I will play; once I find my papers and try to remember who made what. In the meantime I will just drool... oh, and visit, definitely, visit.