"Hope" by Emily Dickinson

 

“Hope is a thing with feathers

That perches on 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 chilliest land

And on the strangest sea

But never – in extremity –

It asked a crumb of me.”