A Feathered Thing

Hope, so says the poet, is a feathered thing
it rests in the soul
love is eturnal

it keeps those it loves warm and safe
it cheerfully sings in every kind of weather
love is eturnal

it never asks to be repaid
love is eturnal

disquieted souls have no hope
restlessness is in their blood
love is still eturnal

they are cold, loveless
they never sing
love is still eturnal

and always ask to be repaid
love is eturnal

Moira Levant © December 5th 2019
levantmusicstudio.com

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