Hope is a Thing With Feathers
by Emily  Dickinson

Hope is a thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings a tune without 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 keeps so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea Yet, never, in extremity It ask a crumb of me. INDEX - NEXT