Monday, February 25, 2008

Poem 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 keeps 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.

1 comment:

secretariat7 said...

This has been one of my very favorite poems since high school, thanks for posting it.