Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Hope 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 the extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.


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