Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers 

That perches in the soul,

 And sings the song without the words 

And never stops at all.

And sweetest in the gale is heard

 And wild must be the storm

 That could abash the little bird 

That kept so many warm.

                                   

              I’ve heard it in the strangest land
And on the chillest sea,
Yet never in extremity
It asked a crumb of me.


(Emily Dickinson)