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 BirdThat 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.