Hope: the odd collection of dyed eggs, the resurrection, glimmers of green clovers in yet-brown fields, birdsong.

Cold and warm rains, wiggling earthworms, rivulets of melting snow, winter bud on lilacs.

“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.