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‘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 (1861?)

Jo Selsjord
Jo Selsjord
Nesoddinnvandrer fra omkring 1980; ydmyk og stolt amatør i det meste; evig interessert kverulant for Nesoddens mulige fremgang.

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