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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