‘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 chilliest Land-

And on the strangest Sea-

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb-of Me.