Susanna Kelland

I think Mum would like this ... Poem 254 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. And the other, perhaps more memorable poem; Little Robin by John F. Connor I am that little robin That sits upon a tree I sing to you each morning But you don't know its me I am that little robin In your garden every day I will never leave you I will never fly away

God saw you getting tired and a cure was not to be, So he put his arms around you and whispered,”Come to me”. A golden heart stopped beating, hardworking hands put to rest. God broke our hearts to prove to us, He only takes the best.

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 in 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 Rachel would have wanted us all to keep singing R.I.P.

Thank you for setting up this memorial to Rachel. We hope that you find it a positive experience developing the site and that it becomes a place of comfort and inspiration for you to visit whenever you want or need to.

I am I and you are you, whatever we were to each other that we still are. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? Life means all that it ever meant, it is the same as it ever was.