1.1.09

 

 


 

 

 

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 chilliest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

 

 

Emily Dickinson

 

 

 

O retrato da autora é um daguerreótipo datado de 1846 / 1847.

 

o artigo "Why Emily Dickinson Would Not Smile For the Camera" está aqui

 

 

 

 

Bom Ano 2009.

 

 

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