contracting...

[houliganpooper]

XXXII

hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
that 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.

ive heard it in the chillest land,
and on the strangest seas;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.

poem by emily dickinson

and i put music to this, and i like it. and i still dont know how i feel about it.