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.