“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without 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 lands –
And on the strangest sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity –
It asked a crumb – of me
Emily Dickinson