Ok, make sure to read all of the posts because I've done 4 in the last 12 hours. This last one I will again devote to poetry, because 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 in the sweetest 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.
By Emily Dickinson.
Ponder love today.
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