Hope

“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 chilliest land

           And on the strangest sea;

            yet, never, in extremity,

            It asked a crumb of me.