“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson “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 . . .
Our young hare or leveret One thrush stands guard A small nap during breakfast First shot of the thrush sitting on her nest Every morning the young writer and myself have breakfast with the . . .
When would he arrive with breakfast? The snow had settled as it rarely ever does. The hours were passing and the icy grass was none too appetising. The mare heard the engine before the foal even realised that at last he was on his way. Bale after bale of warm hay, thrown over the . . .