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