- 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.
After I posted yesterday's poem, I found another by Emily Dickinson that I wanted to share. It reminded me of a quote that I printed out and hung on my cubicle wall way back when I was working at Dentrix:
- Be like a bird, who,
Halting in flight
On limb too slight,
Feels it give way beneath him;
Knowing he has wings.