Hope 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.
.
About graffittigranny
I am sending these sculptures out into the world to have a dialogue with those interested in some of the existential questions like what are we all doing here? and what is the meaning of our existence if any? Each sculpture has a" twin". One twin stays at home under the safety of a somewhat boring bland roof of a dolls house found in hard rubbish. The other is left out in the world somewhere with a poem to engage you in these questions of our existence and our memories. Which existence is better? Is there such a thing as a better life?
The poems are sometimes in French because the Xmas fortune cookie said " The sum of human knowledge is not contained in any one language."
I hope over time a dialogue might begin where the sculptures create a means for us to relate in the quiet of the blog site. What this dialogue will mean or not is yet to be revealed!
Graffitti Granny 
I am really thankful to the owner of this web
page who has shared this wonderful paragraph at here.
I found a copy of this poem on the street in northcote. It is laminated but not near any sculpture. I figure someone else has picked it up and then dropped it again. I found it at a time I needed some hope. Thank you.