Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all
When death comes and whispers to me,
"Thy days are ended,"
let me say to him, "I have lived in love
and not in mere time."
He will ask, "Will thy songs remain?"
I shall say, "I know not, but this I know
that often when I sang I found my eternity."
In the mountain, stillness surges up
to explore its own height;
in the lake, movement stands still
to contemplate its own depth