"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

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Be like the bird,

Who pausing a while

On boughs too slight

Feels them give way,

Yet sings,

Knowing he hath wings.

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"Come to the edge," He said.

They said, 'We are afraid.

'Come to the edge', He said.

They came.

He gently pushed them . . .

And they flew."

~ Peter McWilliams
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Christmas Carols

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