Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
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.
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.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
che si viene a posare sull’anima -
Canta melodie senza parole -
e non smette - mai -
E la senti - dolcissima - nel vento -
E dura deve essere la tempesta -
capace di intimidire il piccolo uccello
che ha dato calore a tanti -
Io l’ho sentito nel paese più gelido -
e sui mari più alieni -
Eppure mai, nemmeno allo stremo,
ha chiesto una briciola - di me
Emily Dickinson
hope nourishes us all Adele, as does the radiant art of this image.
RispondiEliminahoping that this Sunday brings many good things to you, Robert
Bellissima poesia e quel uccellino sembra proprio stanco e infreddolito. Una bella foto dolce. ciao Cri : ) buon week end!
RispondiElimina