hope

B and I got cards from an old friend, Paul, last week.

He had copied out a bit of an Emily Dickinson poem for me, which I thought was very sweet. He perhaps wouldn't know that Emily Dickinson was one of my favourite poets for ages, and I got my best ever essay comments as uni for an essay I wrote on her.

I think the whole poem is worth a thought:

• "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.