“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 chilliest land-

And on the strangest Sea-

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb- of Me.

 

Emily Dickinson, 1861