I stumbled across this beautiful piece of work recently. It grabbed tightly and wrapped its gentle threads around my heart. There is something about the tenderness underlying the strength in the words, or perhaps, it's the way my heart seems desperate to cling to the promise inside of them that has me returning my thoughts frequently, seeking comfort, encouragement, and the obvious; hope.
"Hope" is the thing of 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