"Hope" is the thing with feathers

"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.

--Emily Dickinson, 1861