Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Emily Dickinson wrote...

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

And she also wrote:

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.

I love Emily. True to life itself, and its weird and macabre and joyful mush. 

2 comments:

Kristine said...

Beautiful. Hope is the gift we give ourselves that keeps on giving. Thank you for sharing.
Thinking of you today as I pack for New York and remember the wonderful weekend we once spent there with Scotty W. You took me down museum mile and shared with me so many wondrous, beautiful things I'd never seen before. Have never forgotten how much I learned seeing the world's greatest city through your eyes. Thanks!
p.s. anything you'd like me to pick up for ya in the big apple?

Auntie Cake's Shop said...

oooooh, i love NYC. and that was a seriously fun time. i think we picked up a new hat and you got a leather jacket. stylin'. re bring me something - how about a great run time!?? that would make me proud and happy.