spes res plumigera est

“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.

spes res plumigera est – cantat, nec verba profundit, insidens animam, dum sine fine canit – dulcius omnino – raucis audita procellis – trux fuerit ventus quo puduisset avem. calfacit innumeros minima – hanc regionibus ultro audivi rigidis egregioque mari – attamen haud unquam – mala qualiacumque subirent, me minimum frustum rara poposcit avis. Let’s see whether she needed the letter E by T.A. Hoping’s a thing with quills all round - Says not a word – but sings – Sits on your soul, its song’s unbound, Through worst of storms it rings. A frightful Wind could not abash This birdling all aglow. In chilly land, on briny splash I drank that song: I know. That bird could warm a lot of bods (That salty flood was rum!) and at no point – I’ll lay long odds – would clamour for a crumb.