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, Poem 254, ca. 1861~~
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