Album Artwork by Diana Sudyka
ManuscRipt
f314b "Hope" is the thing with feathers
"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.
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.
j254 "Hope" is the thing with feathers--
"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.
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.
p91-6 Hope
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.
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.