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.
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We are certainly about to enter into the "chillest" of seasons. I'm going to try my best to let this "thing with feathers" keep me warm in the coming months and make sure that I am always straining to hear its tune despite the storms that are bound to ensue.