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.
This poem struck me today. Actually, just the first stanza and it was yesterday. And it didn't strike me, because poems don't typically cause physical injury on purpose. But I liked it, and it is November and November is hard. Proof? Here is an article that says so. November Blues. Not a very good article, surely, but proves the point well enough. I'll be doing something with this poem in the next week or so. Don't know what. May be brilliant. May be not-so-much.