"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.
by Emily Dickinson, 1861
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