Hope
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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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
~Emily Dickinson
Comments (2)
I'm lost for words after this lovely accompaniment to Emily Dickinson's words. A thorougly thoughtful post. Thank you, HoneyD.
My pleasure, Bartleby. This has been one of my favorite songs for years, but I too found myself drawing a blank when it came to words. Dickinson's poem seemed to fit just right.