Wednesday, September 12, 2012


charcoal on paper, 16 x 20

Hope is a 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.                           Emily Dickinson