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.
- Emily Dickinson
This poem has been on my mind lately, then Melissa made some pretty tumblers and trays. Now one of them lives here and I haven't had a drink from anything else since it arrived. Hope.
May this weekend be good to all of us. xo
