
Here, the Chelsea Antiques Flea Market. Takes a lot of patience to sift through this stuff--and I don't have it. Still fun to come across these markets though.
I saw this poem on the subway a few weeks ago
and thought it was nice:
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.