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.
-Emily Dickinson
This has been a favorite poem of mine for years, and one that I often read to my children.
However, when I was in counseling, my counselor often reminded me that I was too hopeful. She often talked about the book, When Hope can Kill, which I have yet to read.
I find that hope is often a longing to make life in my image rather than accept life as it is. I can only change what I have the power to change, and whatI have the power to change is me, and me alone.
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