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.

Enough is so vast a sweetness I suppose it never occurs.

In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!

Vinnie rocks her Garden and moans that God won't help her. I suppose he is too busy getting angry with the Wicked every day.

Forever is made up of nows.

I imagine therefore I belong and am free.

Judge tenderly of me.