Hope is the
thing with f e a t h e r s
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.