typewriter awry

affirming molecular revolutions

xxxii

Hope is a 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, _Complete Poems_

— 1 year ago with 1 note
  1. machinic posted this