Hope

Hope
by Emily Dickenson

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.