"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.
You should do your work, and then you wouldn’t be so stressed, and you would feel a great sense of accomplishment, and you’d have free time when you’re finished.
But then there’s this other part of me that’s like:
No.
They both make such
good arguments.
tumblr