![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSLgHfKyUxFmzBzFg-z_wG-4xZ14_ixs34J3ZMOnIsmOXtHr58AQcyWrLUON7yZiDxQ6sJeDH96SVaQnwmGx-yDGcn9JqcHNgWkUvlLemlwlKekzpjGmjM_NKzZeIfalhJv4J3UvOoFCly_5xMP-H8FSoQ7HBG-7IxPAR4NozGGYmC71QYBm7YA0z/w352-h760/05b2422f4a69ac333da69be4b3082061.jpg)
“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.