And now, some words from 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.

Being a bit of a pessimist, I tend to be more of the, “Do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands,” school of thought. But perhaps Miss Emily is right. Perhaps I simply haven’t been listening.

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