Monday, February 2, 2009


Hope is the Thing with Feathers
by Emily Dickinson

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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I love this poem.  Even though I'm trying my best these days to focus on gratitude instead of hope, I'm nothing without hope.  Hope sometimes is the tiny candle flicker that gets me through dark times.  Hope can also be overwhelming certainty.  Today, hope is possibility, in all its fragile, innocent optimism.

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