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.
Discussions:
Thread Title | Last Reply | Replies |
---|---|---|
Untitled by donnabking | Sep 14, 2014 3:30 PM | 0 |
Post a new thread about this blog entry: