Hope is a Thing With Feathers

by Emily Dickinson

That perches in the soul

And sings a tune without 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 keeps so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land

And on the strangest sea

Yet, never, in extremity

It ask a crumb of me.