Hope is the thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with Feathers
poem by: Emily Dickinson
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune with out the words,
And never stops at all.
And the 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.
© Emily Dickinson