A Poem from Emily Dickinson

“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.

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