An Emily Dickinson poem for this Friday. Here, it is sunny and summer has fallen. Some near friends are having birthdays and my far away friends are healing. So, enjoy, take care and have a good weekend.
Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
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.