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

This poem has been on my mind lately, then Melissa made some pretty tumblers and trays. Now one of them lives here and I haven't had a drink from anything else since it arrived. Hope.

May this weekend be good to all of us. xo