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.