Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches on 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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
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