"Hope" is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soulAnd sings the tune without the wordsAnd never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest landAnd on the strangest sea,Yet never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.
