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.