Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
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.




The First
Wendell Berry

The first man who whistled
thought he had a wren in his mouth.
He went around all day
with his lips puckered
afraid to swallow.