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.
---Emily Dickinson
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I absolutely love this poem. it reminds me of why the caged bird sings. so often i have felt that i was the caged bird. and that i alsways hope(d) against hope.
there are only 3 things that are ever ours which no one can take away; they are our own individual hopes, emotions, and thoughts.
but this little birdie is spreading his wings. though he might fall at first, nonetheless he must try and try again.
but this little birdie is spreading his wings. though he might fall at first, nonetheless he must try and try again.
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