Hope is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson

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.

~ This poem is in the public domain.