Hope is a thing. . .

I’m pretty sure I ran over hope during my long, unnecessary car trip last night.

Just in case there is anything left to salvage, a little Emily Dickinson, subversive woman extraordinare:

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.

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One response to “Hope is a thing. . .

  1. I love this poem. It reminds me of a post I wrote in November (linked in the “Website” box).

    Thank you for writing so candidly about your experience with Lyme. It’s such a comfort to know I’m not alone in this.

    Lisa

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