August 29: Hostile Teenagers, Emily Dickinson, "Hope" Is a Thing with Feathers

You will excuse my abandonment of Moby-Dick this evening.  I'm dashing the post off between the two classes I'm teaching this semester.  In a little less than twenty minutes, I will be heading into a roomful of surly students who are being forced to take a class in composition from me.  Translation:  hostile teenagers. 

Having taught twice this week already, I know that I will be able to handle tonight.  I'm going to be brain dead by the time I get home, but I will not be dead dead.

Saint Marty is thankful for supportive friends.

A poem , , , 

"Hope" Is a Thing with Feathers

by:  Emily Dickinson

“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.