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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 keep 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
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My early Sunday mornings are for poetry.
Play along if you want
(and if you give me your link I'll show it here)