8 augustus 2010

~Poem

Nate Frizzell.
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.
.

by Emily Dickinson
Painting by Nate Frizzell

3 opmerkingen:

Aputsiaq zei

Beautiful Anna...I like both the poem and the images!!

Hermes zei

And another. Love Emily's work. Have a really good week.

Tinkuzza zei

Thanks a lot! It is so much concerned my heart