Hope

This was on a friends site this morning.  It was like she read my mind.  

“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-

Ive heard it in the chillest land-
And in the strangest sea-
Yet-never-in Extremity,
It asked a crumb- of me

Emily Dickinson

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