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.