Hope is the Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickenson

“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.

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