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 Permalink
Posted 3 months ago
with 3 notes
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