“Hope” is a 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 in the chillest land –
And on the strangest sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.