"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.
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