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.
~~Emily Dickinson~~
