| 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 s |
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