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 herd;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've herd it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.
You must forgive me, I seem to have
feathers stuck in my Camera.
God's Gifts, are better than
mans best dreams.
I must concentrate my gaze closer to the ground.