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.
~~Emily Dickinson~~
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
I Don't Want To Be Comforted
Read true personal stories, chat & get advice, support and help from a group of 14 people who all say 'I Want to Be Left Alone When Grieving'
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