Tuesday, July 22, 2008


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.


zipthwung said...

A religious revival was sweeping New England, and the girls were urged by their headmistress to profess “hope.” Dickinson resisted defiantly, calling herself a “pagan.”

Cold Bacon said...

haha you answered your own post.

zipthwung said...


Theres a new browser out called "Flock"

how weird is that?

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