Diffy
Nuovo recensore (6 recensioni)
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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
When I'm at a
crossroad,
I hear all these familiar voices
nailed in my mind;
they turn, they roll,
they sink in my thoughts,
never leaving.
But here you are,
you stretch out your left hand to me
and you give me A push,
to jump to the right way...
I hear all these familiar voices
nailed in my mind;
they turn, they roll,
they sink in my thoughts,
never leaving.
But here you are,
you stretch out your left hand to me
and you give me A push,
to jump to the right way...
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