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

所有跟帖： 

• Beautiful poem. Nice day. -Euro-dollar- ♂ (0 bytes) () 11/20/2018 postreply 06:51:37

• Each of us is a little bird, but we still can make our contribut -Euro-dollar- ♂ (181 bytes) () 11/20/2018 postreply 07:12:30