sprite writes
broodings from the burrow

May 26, 2022

posted by soe 1:02 am

“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 in in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet — never — in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of me.

      ~Emily Dickinson

Category: arts. There is/are 1 Comment.


Comment by kat 05.26.22 @ 7:42 am