Poetry Friday

I've decided to try something over here in December-land. I've written poetry since I was young, and although much of it was the whinging of a fairly-angsty adolecent, some of it wasn't horrible. Poetry, good poetry, is beautiful. So, I'm going to start posting poetry - other people's to start, but maybe mine at some point too.

Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

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.