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 chilliest land ,
And on the strangest sea ;
Yet , never ,in extremity ,
It asked a crumb of me ,
