Hope

Emily Dickinson in this pre-Christmas post. Hope is apt now, but is still sometimes hard to hear...too many gales still blowing around me, I'm not quite sure when it will stop and I'll be in safe harbor. I guess I can hope that it will be soon. Anyway, here it is: "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.