“Hope” is the thing with feathers

“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

 

(Written by Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886)