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.
---Emily Dickinson
Thank you Barb, Gina, and Pat for reminding me...Love you all.