Yesterday was one of those days. But then I got a card in the mail from a dear friend and it was exactly what I needed. The poem inside the card was exactly what I needed:
"Hope is the thing with feathers"
by 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.
(Thank you, Cara.)
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