Hope Is The Thing
My little boy came running in to the house yesterday afternoon clutching a small white feather in his hot, chubby hand. He placed it beside me like some humble offering, saying, “This is for you, Mum”, before running back outside again to enjoy the rare winter sunshine.
‘Hope’ is the Thing with Feathers
‘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.