Saturday, April 12, 2008


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.

Emily Dickinson

Dedicated to my special friend S. May hope not flee you yet.

1 comment:

Sarita Catita said...

It's with tears in my eyes that I read the poem! Thank you so much for your friendship!
We will struggle!
We have hope!