‘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