“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
by Emily Dickinson
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.
From The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson. The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Found on the excellent Poetry Foundation website . Worth a visit.
