Tuesday, November 15, 2011

I spy

“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.
Emily Dickinson 1830–1886

spotted in the window of the antique shop across from work


Mimi said...

Window shopper's delight.

trailbee said...

Co-incidence? I used that poem very recently in someone else's blog. It is amazing how appropriate these words can seem under different circumstances. I was thinking that I would memorize it, because it is so beautiful.