Hope is the thing with feathers

 

That perches in the soul,

 

And sings the tune without the words,

 

And never stops at all.

 

The 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.