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 sour 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 .
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