By Emily Dickinson

“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 chillest land,
And on the strangest Sea,
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.