'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.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Spry Arms Of The Wind
- A Sickness Of This World It Most Occasions
- The Face we choose to miss
- Remembrance has a Rear and Front
- These Fevered Days - to take them to the Forest