Monday, January 21, 2013

hope is the thing with feathers


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.

—Emily Dickinson