Wednesday, September 24, 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

Emily Dickinson

art credit:
birds in tree print 
 for sale on etsy


pve design said...

As far as I am concerned, this could be engraved on my tombstone or tattooed on my....well, I don't have a tattoo - Or maybe it could be etched, in whale bone like Nantucket scrimshaw for an accessory.

Jennifer Paganelli said...

love the poem!! Thanks for coming soon. Jennifer