Every day is a new beginning with a new chance at life. At an intense time of my life I stumbled upon this poem by Emily Dickinson. I'll never be the same.
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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
I find that it means that there is always hope, always a chance at happiness. We will never be foresaken, yet there are times when we act as if no one loves us, and we take this hope for granted. Happiness is a choice. What do you guys think?
