Wednesday, April 10, 2013
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.
Posted by mittens at 8:06 AM