hope

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.






A gift from K's mom, who knew the little bird would be appreciated but could only imagine how strongly the sentiment would be felt.

Each year one Christmas gift turns out to be perfect - this may well be this year's perfect gift.