Thursday, September 23, 2010

prose envy

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~


Bonnie said...

Love the pic love the poem, I want to be on that stick with those birds....I dont think I'd looks as cute though ha ha ha!

Mama said...

We love little birdies. Dad calls them "tender and sweet." Beautiful poem.