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 chillest land,
and on the strangest sea;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.

By Emily Dickinson