monday words #4

Yeah, I know it’s Tuesday.  Deal with it.

Another one of my favorite poets is Emily Dickinson.  In high school, I thought it was fascinating how she rarely left the house and maintained contact with the outside world only through correspondence.

Hope is the thing with feathers 

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 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.

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