Love my Hope
"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all", said Dickinson, and I now realize my hope has been singing for something more than a year now, waiting for the words to the tune to come, me not being able to write 'em down for my hope. Oh, Elizabeth, I couldn't even begin to count the ways I love my hope... I love it to every measure my soul can reach, to any level of everyday's most quiet need... I love it freely, purely, with passion, with faith, with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints... I love it with the breath, smiles and tears of all my life, and I'm sure I shall but love it better after death... Because, had I the heaven's golden, silver, blue, dim, dark cloths of nigh and light, I would have spread the cloths under my hope's feet... But I had only my dreams... I spread my dreams under my hope's feet, and my hope didn't tread softly, and violently trod on my dreams...