Hope is the thing with feathers

 

——Emily Dickinson

 

 

 

Hope is the thing with feathers

 

That perches in the soul

 

And sing 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 abashed 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