“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