"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.

blue1887:

"What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak. It was born in the moment when we accumulated silent things within us."

Bachelard, Poetics of Space

(via existential-anxieties)

mpdrolet:




Ampi Aristu Martel
you don’t know tired
but do he care?
progress