Emily Dickinson
- Hope
Hope is the thing with feathers - It 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.
