It’s a dreary day in New England. I’m winding down my work day and wanted to share an inspiring poem written by one of the best.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sing 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.
Final Harvest. Emily Dickinson 63, (254)