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L’Etoile, or The Star Dancer on Stage; Edgar Degas. 
This might just be my favorite Degas. She looks like a bird, about to fly away.


Hope     
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

L’Etoile, or The Star Dancer on Stage; Edgar Degas. 


This might just be my favorite Degas. She looks like a bird, about to fly away.


Hope     

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