"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 one the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -Of me.
by Emily Dickinson
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