Zürich, Winter 2018Hope 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.
Emily Dickinson
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the … Continued
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It neither was the words nor yet the tune. Any tune would have done and any words. Any listener or no listener at all. As nightingales in rocks or a child crooning in its own world of strange awakening, or larks for no reason but themselves So on the bus through late November running, by … Continued
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