HOPE IS A THING WITH FEATHERS
By Emily Dickensen

Hope is a 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 on the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.