| "Hope" is the thing with feathers � That perches on 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 #254 Hope is the Thing With Feathers |