Hope; 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.

Your poem of the day. 🙂

I’ll try and post another article today or tomorrow. I have one I’m dying to share with all of you.

God bless you all, my darling avidReaders 🙂