"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.”