Just wanted to share a favorite poem of mine with you… I keep this on a bulletin board next to my desk and read it often. I’ve always thought it was remarkable in its simplicity and positivity, in part because it was written by Emily Dickinson, whose collection of work is often much darker than this poem might suggest. The fact that a poet as troubled [and talented] as Dickinson wrote this makes it more powerful, I think, and I hope it brings you a bit of happiness. Wishing you all a lovely weekend. : ) xo, m


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.


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