254
"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.
Very good and deep poem.
this made me think :)
that's awesome
i read it 3 times to fully understand it, nice poem keep up the creativity
pretty deep stuff
following and supporting
Keep them coming!
And sings the tune without the words <3
that is very beautiful! Never knew emily dickinson had such a simple mozartesque style.
I haven't read Dickinson in years.
this is the emo pics:))
i love your blog's layout