“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.

Poem by Emily Dickinson