Submission Twenty-Nine

Hope

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.

By: Emily Dickenson
Submitted by Andrew Shattuck McBride
If you have some time take a look at his marvelous blog: http://andrewsmcbride.wordpress.com/