"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 chilliest land -
And on the strangest sea -
Yet - never - in extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Emily Dickinson
The Poems of Emily Dickinson (Franklin), 314
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