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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

 

In my last post I mentioned that I had just started reading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. I finished that a little while ago and am trying to work my way through Charles Dickens’ “Tale of Two Cities” now. This book is requiring a lot more of my concentration  due to the way it is written. However, I don’t think picking it up when I only have short spaces of time to read really helps this. I’m not instantly enamoured with the book, but I don’t like starting one and not finished it so I will persevere for a little longer and see if it grows on me.