Because, in a turbulent world, we can all use a little hope . . .
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.
-- Emily Dickinson --
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQwr4TEPE9nTK85o6f2akJ2E4OiWCI9fy6f1kA9lkfc-ZJPuOCPQnV9UiIlN0qalPFDWrN-Yf_wQp07eDcot1lYTt2ZxOsbNAe_idltSljHZfNbp90vNlxtKn4O3Hulnnd_qAPl_igc_Y/s400/hope.jpg)
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-- Emily Dickinson --
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQwr4TEPE9nTK85o6f2akJ2E4OiWCI9fy6f1kA9lkfc-ZJPuOCPQnV9UiIlN0qalPFDWrN-Yf_wQp07eDcot1lYTt2ZxOsbNAe_idltSljHZfNbp90vNlxtKn4O3Hulnnd_qAPl_igc_Y/s400/hope.jpg)
Have a hopeful week,
Donna
Donna
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