a word.

.

a word is dead
when it is said,
some say.
i say it just
begins to live
that day.

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 keeps 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
.