New Orleans/Emily thingyinson

[janet]

I think I'm getting ready to go home:

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.

[janet]

I didn't write Emily thingyson. I wrote D i c k inson. What the?

I tried to post a rebuttal to the censorship, but it didn't post; maybe this one will...

Funny!