"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.

by cometti for dutch sep/oct 1999
what • what • what


Teenagers in Brooklyn, summer of 1959.

Love this