Page 198 - 2008 Wardlaw Hartridge

Hope Gallagher
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.
Emily Dickinson
la my PuMpkwkead,
TIumk yew a££ tke kappuieat yew kteayki iwte wy\[He. IawIkeduckieatmtiwinIkeumldla hamadwuylitetcuuiandniu£oayew. Iawse pleadelyewanda£Etiialyewaxe. Ihuieyea
ue»iy wucli. Ittew