GIP

"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

(no subject)

Nate Silver at FiveThirtyEight just brought tears to my eyes:

...someone who knew that the majesty of America exists not just in the tranquility of its small towns but also in the bustle of its cities.

Read the whole post.