Thursday, April 29, 2010

My Favorite Peom and Birds

Hope is a thing with feathers
That purges in the soul,
That 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 have heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

-Emily Dickinson

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