mardi 17 septembre 2013

READ: Emily Dickinson

Her words are simple and efficient, floating around you while you read:

"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.

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