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.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　by Emily Dickinson　　　　　　　

arrow
arrow
    全站熱搜

    ax455 發表在 痞客邦 留言(0) 人氣()