Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
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 sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
By Emily Dickison
No comments:
Post a Comment