By Emily Dickinson 1830–1886

“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.